He opened his eyes.
A ceiling. Cracked plaster. A single bulb hanging from a wire.
The same room.
The papers. The blood dried on his lips. The symbols on the walls still crawling, still watching. He was on the floor again. His body was whole. No cracks. No light leaking out. Just the dull ache of a man who had been dead and forgotten to stay that way.
He pushed himself up. His arms shook. His head pounded.
"Young Veda," he whispered.
The voice that came back was distant. Blurry. Like hearing someone speak from the bottom of a well.
"I am here, child."
Veda looked around. The room was empty. But he felt the presence. Hovering. Watching. He saw a faint shimmer in the corner. Young Veda's shape, barely there, smiling that ancient smile. He did not speak again. Just watched.
Why is he not speaking?
The thought barely formed before a noise came from outside the room. Footsteps. Voices. A door opening somewhere below.
Veda stood. His legs nearly gave way. He grabbed the wall. His fingers left prints in the dust.
He walked to the door. Pulled it open.
The house. The same house. The same wooden staircase. The same warm light spilling up from the ground floor. The smell of spices. His mother's cooking.
No. No, this was wrong. He had watched them die. He had held his mother's broken body. He had seen his father's headless remains. He had felt the Heavenly Lord crush Gita's skull under his boot.
This was not possible.
He ran down the stairs. His bare feet pounded the wood. His breath came in heavy gasps. He reached the dining room.
His mother was in the kitchen. Her back was turned. She was stirring a pot. Humming an old song. The same song. The one she hummed in Puri. The one she hummed here.
His father sat at the dining table. Newspaper spread in front of him. Glasses low on his nose. A cup of tea growing cold beside his hand.
Veda's breath stopped.
His mother turned. Saw him. Her face lit up.
"Oh, you woke up. I was just about to come wake you. Go wash your face. Brush your teeth. Breakfast is ready."
Veda's eyes blurred.
He saw her covered in blood. Her arms missing. Her body torn. Her face peaceful in death.
He turned his head to his father. The old man looked up. Frowned.
"Are you okay, beta? You look pale."
Veda saw his father's head missing. A stump. Blood pouring down his chest. His hands still holding the newspaper.
He gasped. His chest heaved. He could not breathe. The room was spinning. His father stood up from the chair. Walked toward him.
"Beta? What's wrong?"
He came closer. His hand reached out.
Veda's vision went red. He saw the room darken. His father's eyes turned hollow. Blood dripped from where his head should have been.
Veda fell.
His knees hit the floor. His hands caught himself. He stayed there, on all fours, gasping, shaking.
His mother screamed. His father shouted.
But their voices became distant. Muffled. Like they were speaking through water.
The world faded.
He was a child again.
Small hands. Small feet. A white kurta that hung loose on his thin frame. His mother held his hand. They were standing in a long line. Around them, hundreds of devotees pressed close, their voices rising in chant and prayer.
The Jagannath Temple in Puri.
He remembered this day. The crowd. The heat. The smell of flowers and ghee and sweat. His mother had saved for months to bring him here.
They moved forward. Step by step. They circled the outer temple, passing shrines dedicated to other gods. A stone statue of Lord Shiva, his third eye closed in meditation. Goddess Lakshmi seated on a lotus, gold coins pouring from her hand. Ganesha with his elephant head, one tusk broken. Hanuman kneeling, his chest torn open to reveal Rama and Sita inside.
Each statue seemed to watch him. Each idol felt alive.
Then they reached the main temple.
The three giant statues stood on the elevated platform. The eyes of the world. The heart of the universe.
On the left, Lord Balabhadra. His complexion was white as milk, his face calm and powerful. The elder brother. The one who carries the plow and the mace. His eyes were long and wide, painted with devotion. He looked like a king who had no need for a crown.
On the right, Goddess Subhadra. Her idol was smaller, delicate, her complexion golden yellow like the first light of dawn. The younger sister. The one who holds the secret of balance between creation and destruction. Her smile was faint, mysterious, like she knew something no one else did.
In the center, Lord Jagannath.
He was not beautiful in the way the world calls beautiful. His face was dark, almost black, carved from neem wood. His eyes were massive, round, white orbs dominating his face. No eyelids. No iris. Just pure white circles that seemed to stare through everything. His arms were stubby, his body unfinished, his crown sitting crooked on his head.
He looked like a child's drawing of a god. Primitive. Raw. Utterly terrifying.
And yet.
And yet, when Veda looked into those white eyes, he felt something he had never felt before. Not peace. Not love. Not fear.
Recognition.
You are here again.
The words did not come from the statue. They came from somewhere deeper. Somewhere inside.
The child Veda tilted his head. The giant Jagannath stared back. The crowd chanted. The priests rang bells. His mother pulled his hand.
"Come, beta. Offer your prayer."
She handed him a small diya. The flame trembled in his small palm. He closed his eyes.
And in the darkness behind his lids, he heard it. A voice. Not loud. Not soft. Just there. Four words. Five at most.
"The wheel remembers your face."
He opened his eyes.
The temple was gone.
He was in the hospital room.
The same white ceiling. The same fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic and clean sheets.
His mother sat beside his bed. Her head was on her folded arms. Sleeping. The same way she had slept in the first life. The same way she had slept before he called her "Maa" and she woke up screaming with joy.
He watched her chest rise and fall.
She is alive.
He remembered her dying. In his arms. In a different world. In a different life. He had watched her head burst under the Heavenly Lord's boot. He had screamed until his voice broke.
But here, she was breathing.
His eyes filled with tears.
She stirred. Lifted her head. Her eyes opened. Red from crying. Puffy. Tired.
Their eyes met.
"Veda?" Her voice was soft. Groggy. "You're awake."
She smiled. The same smile. The one that had carried him through hunger and war and death.
Veda lunged forward. His arms wrapped around her. He held her so tight he felt her ribs shift. His face buried in her shoulder. The smell of her. Coconut oil. Jasmine.
"I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry you died. I'm sorry I watched it happen."
She froze. Her hands hovered in the air.
"Beta... what are you talking about? I'm right here. I'm not dead."
"I saw you die. I saw him kill you. I saw your head.." He could not finish. The words caught in his throat.
Her arms came down around him. Her hands rubbed his back. She did not understand. But she held him.
"Shh, shh. Everything is alright. No one is dead. Don't cry. Please don't cry."
His tears soaked her sari. Her own eyes filled. She started crying too. Neither of them knew why. They just held each other, mother and son, drowning in a pain that had no name.
The door opened.
His father walked in. Behind him, two men in black suits. Behind them, a doctor and a nurse carrying a clipboard.
Veda looked up.
His father was wearing a simple white shirt and gray trousers. His glasses were thick. His hair was gray at the temples. His face was tired but kind.
Veda remembered buying a cake for his parents' anniversary. He remembered his father's eyes lighting up when he said "Papa." He remembered the headless body. The blood. The stillness.
"Papa..."
He tried to get up from the bed. His legs swung over the side. His arms reached out.
His father stopped walking.
His face changed. The kindness drained away. His eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened.
"WHO ARE YOU?"
Veda's feet touched the cold floor. He stopped moving.
"Papa, it's me. Veda…"
His mother looked up, confused. "What are you saying? Of course he is our son. Have you gone mad?"
His father raised a hand. "Stop. Let me do my job."
His job?
The room grew hot. The air began to shimmer. The papers on the bedside table lifted and flew across the room. The curtains billowed despite the closed windows.
A sword appeared in his father's hand. Long. Curved. The blade shone with a light that was not sunlight. It was golden. Hot. Alive.
Behind him, the two men in black suits pulled weapons from under their jackets. One drew a pistol that crackled with blue energy. The other raised a short blade that dripped with shadows.
The doctor and the nurse stumbled backward. The nurse screamed. The doctor grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door.
His mother stared at his father. Her mouth hung open.
"Arjuna... what are you doing? That is our son!"
His father did not look at her. His eyes were fixed on Veda. And behind his father, a golden light appeared. A figure. A soul. A being made of fire and light. It hovered beside him, faceless, radiating heat.
The soul spoke. Its voice was like metal grinding against stone.
"He is not your son."
His father raised the sword. Pointed it at Veda's chest. The blade was inches from his heart. The heat from it made Veda's skin prickle.
His father's eyes burned with fire.
WHERE IS MY SON!
Veda could not move. His mother was crying. The two men stepped forward, weapons ready. The room was chaos. Papers flew. Curtains tore. The light flickered.
In the corner of the room, floating near the ceiling, his legs crossed, his chin resting on his palm, Young Veda watched.
He was smiling.