JAFFNA PORT, SRI LANKA. 3:14 PM. October 26, 2025.
Sita Lakshmi stepped off the ferry, salt air stinging her lungs. The Jaffna shore was quieter than Chennai, its scars deeper war-torn buildings, temple bells, eyes watching too closely. Her jacket hid the microchip, sewn into the lining, its weight heavier than gold. Ravi's note, now memorized and burned, echoed in her mind: Sita. You know why. Keep it safe. Find me in Jaffna. Her pulse hadn't calmed since Chennai, since his face sharp, tired, beautiful haunted her. The riff, that raw dang-dang-dang… dheem-dheem-dheem, wasn't music. It was them, a thread across centuries. Ashoka Vatika: Simshapa leaves, Ravana's plea, her refusal. Only she remembered. He didn't. Not yet.
She'd booked a guesthouse near Nallur Kovil, paying cash to avoid a trail. The red-dust streets smelled of sea and fried fish, the heat pressing like a warning. Her phone buzzed at a tea stall, Sinhala prefix. She answered, heart pounding.
"You came." Ravi's voice, low, baritone, Tamil, cut through the static. Not a question a fact, like he'd felt her cross the sea.
"Where are you?" Sita asked, gripping her chai, eyes scanning the crowd. A boy selling vadai stared too long. Her skin prickled.
"Nallur Kovil. Evening prayers. Look for the shadow with too many heads." Click.
She paid, hands unsteady. His voice sparked memories Ashoka Vatika, Ravana's poetry, not force, pleading for her heart. She'd refused, bound to another. Now, Ravi's gaze on the beach confused, certain pulled her. She wanted to see him, to ask why her eyes felt familiar, to test if his touch would burn. The pull was electric, forbidden, not music but them.
NALLUR KOVIL. 6:47 PM.
The temple glowed under oil lamps, air thick with jasmine, sandalwood, sweat. Devotees chanted to Lord Murugan, bells clanging. Sita slipped through, eyes scanning shadows. Her heart raced, not from fear but from him. He was here.
A figure leaned against a pillar, white linen shirt, sleeves rolled, hair loose. No guitar. Just Ravi. His eyes found hers across the courtyard, silencing the world no chants, no bells, just his gaze, deep, ancient, pulling like gravity. She crossed to him, sandals soft on stone, stopping a foot away. Too close. Not close enough.
"You shouldn't be here," Ravi said, voice soft, heavy with warning. "It's dangerous."
"You left me the chip," she countered, voice steady despite her racing pulse. "You knew I'd come."
He smiled, sad, sharp, eyes tracing her face. "I hoped you wouldn't."
Her chest tightened. His voice was Ravana's baritone, poetry in a storm. "You called me Sita," she said, stepping closer, dust clinging to her sandals. "Why?"
He flinched, pendant a Shiva lingam glinting. "It slipped out. I don't know." His eyes betrayed him, endless, seeing her soul. "Your eyes… they're like a dream I can't shake."
She swallowed, memories flooding: Ashoka Vatika, stone walls, Simshapa leaves. Ravana, not a monster but a king, pleading with words, not touch. "I know that place," she said, voice low. "The garden where Sita sat, captive but untouched. Ravana… he spoke to her. Poetry, not force. A plea."
Ravi's breath caught. "My ajji told me stories. Not the Ramayana everyone knows. Her Ravana was a poet, a king who loved too fiercely. He spoke for Sita, not to cage her, but to mourn her. Ajji said his words carried ten hearts, one for each head, all breaking." His voice cracked, raw. "I feel it too. When I saw you on the beach… it was like hearing those words."
Sita's throat closed. The riff was him, his soul, echoing across time. She wanted to touch his pendant, his face, see if the spark would ignite. She didn't. "The chip," she said, forcing focus. "What is it?"
"Brahmastra," he said, voice hardening. "AI swarm. Drones that think, adapt, multiply. Like arrows in Lanka's war, alive. Delhi wants it for borders. Or control." His eyes darkened, a king's resolve. "The chip's the key, the code that makes it… me."
"You?" Her pulse spiked. "It thinks like you?"
He nodded, a ghost of a smile. "Ten heads, one mind. Sounds mad, right?"
"Not mad," she whispered. "Familiar." She saw ten voices, one man, pleading in the grove. "Why trust me?"
He stepped closer, sandalwood, coffee, ozone filling the space. "I don't know," he said, voice raw. "But when I saw you, I felt it. Like I've been waiting. For you."
Her breath hitched. The air crackled, longing, restraint, a line uncrossed. She wanted to lean in, test his touch. Footsteps sharp on gravel. Ravi grabbed her arm, pulling her behind crates. Damp wood mixed with his scent. Her shoulder pressed his chest, his breath warm on her neck. "Stay still," he murmured, lips brushing her ear. The spark was electric, dangerous. She wanted to turn, to face him. She didn't.
A safari-suited man paused at the alley's mouth, phone glinting. "No sign. Check the temple." He moved on. Sita's skin prickled.
Ravi pulled her up, hand lingering. "We need to move," he said, eyes saying more stay, trust, feel. She nodded, ache in her chest.
They slipped through Jaffna's maze, past shuttered shops, flickering lamps. Sea salt, fried fish, evening's weight. The chip was Brahmastra, but the riff his melody was more. A prophecy? Ajji's voice echoed: Protect the riff. It's the key. To them.
A symbol on a wall—lingam, ten flames. Like his pendant. "Ravi," she whispered, pointing. "What's that?"
He froze, face paling. "Ajji's mark. Older than Lanka. A sign of… return." His voice cracked. "She said I'd know it. With her."
"Her?" Sita's breath caught.
He looked at her, eyes raw. "I think she meant you."
The words hung, electric. She wanted to erase the distance, test his touch. Shouts men's voices, badges flashing. Ravi grabbed her hand, grip protective. "Safehouse. Lagoon. Come."
They ran, night swallowing them. The chip burned in her jacket. His hand burned hotter.
FLASHBACK: Ashoka Vatika, Mythic Past.
Simshapa leaves fell like tears. Sita sat, defiant, as Ravana stood at the grove's edge. No crown. Just one face, sharp, pleading. "I'd build you a world," he said, voice breaking. She'd refused, heart elsewhere. His eyes promised he'd wait. Forever.
JAFFNA STREETS. 7:45 PM.
Sita's sandals slapped dirt, Ravi's hand in hers. The symbol haunted her ten flames, ten heads, one truth. She remembered the grove, his restraint. Now, in Jaffna's shadows, she wasn't sure what she'd choose.