I had grown up listening to temple bells, but I never imagined they would speak to me in a way I'd understand. My name is Mithra, and I grew up in a house where my father's hands could build gods or break them — and sometimes, he did both. He used to be a Śilpin, a master sculptor, trained in something called Śilpa Śāstra. It's an ancient Sanskrit text that teaches how to carve idols and temples perfectly, with the right proportions, measurements, and rhythm, so the gods themselves could "breathe" through the stone. My father used to say, "One mistake, one mis-measure, and the deity's life is wrong." Now, his hands trembled with alcohol, and his eyes were haunted by mistakes I couldn't fix.
That evening, the sky had turned dark with rain. The monsoon drummed on the temple roof like a thousand tiny drums. I was sweeping dust in the Garbhagriha, the inner sanctum where only priests are allowed. The smell of incense and wet stone made me dizzy with memories. Then, something caught my eye — a circle of stone hidden under moss and dirt. It was cracked across the center.
I brushed the dirt away and gasped. Carved into it were strange words in Sanskrit:
"Kālaḥ anantah. Karmaḥ āvṛttiḥ. Raktaṁ satyam."
(Time is endless. Karma repeats. Blood is truth.)
I didn't fully understand the words, but I felt them in my chest. They were written in an old script, called Grantha, used by temple artists centuries ago. I traced the letters with my finger, and then my finger slipped on a jagged edge — and I cut myself. A drop of blood fell into the crack.
That's when everything changed.
The temple bell rang — but it didn't ring forward. It rang backward. The shadows twisted. The air felt thick and alive, like it was folding around me. The torches flickered, then went out. And then, silence.
I opened my eyes. The temple looked… new. The stone smelled of fresh chiseling, not dust and age. Statues that had been cracked and worn were smooth and shining. Someone was reciting softly in the distance:
"Angula-traya pramāṇam… nābhi-sthānam śilāyāḥ…"
I didn't understand the words yet, but they had a rhythm, like a heartbeat. Curious, I walked closer. And then I saw him.
A young man, bronze-skinned and strong, hammering stone with perfect rhythm. He moved like he was in a trance, shaping the rock into the form of a dancing god. His eyes were kind, his movements careful, precise.
"Who are you?" he called, brushing stone dust from his face.
"Mithra," I whispered. "I… I think I got lost."
He smiled. "Then the gods must have guided you here. Every lost soul finds a temple."
I felt my heart skip. There was something in his face — something familiar. His eyes, the line of his jaw… I shook my head. It couldn't be. But the truth slowly began to creep in.
He had my father's eyes.
And in that moment, I realized I had stepped into a time I was never meant to visit — a place where my father was not yet broken, where the man who had hurt me could still be someone else.