Not the light tinkling of a hand-bell, but the deep, thunderous clang of heavy temple bells, rolling across the stillness of dawn like echoes from the heavens themselves.
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Their rhythm rose and fell, weaving into the drone of sacred chants murmured by saffron-clad priests.
From the ghats, the crackle of firewood joined in, sharp and dry, as tongues of flame licked skyward.
The river lapped softly against stone steps, carrying with it the faint fragrance of marigolds, camphor, and smoke from sandalwood pyres.
Death, prayer, and faith—all bound together in one morning breath.
And somewhere in the thickened air, as if whispered by the wind itself, a voice floated:
Every family carries its legacy. Every man carries his fate.
But sometimes... fate demands more than a man can give."
The solemn silence of the ghat wavered, blurred, and dissolved—like mist peeling off water.
Suddenly, the scene burst apart into something entirely different.
The chaos of Mumbai.
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The clash of honking rickshaws, the singsong calls of street hawkers shouting " Anda pav!
Cutting chai! Masala vada!", the laughter of children chasing a battered cricket ball down crowded lanes.
Cars swerved, pedestrians cursed, and somewhere a bollywood song blared from a half-broken speaker.
And in the middle of this madness was Rohan.
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Rohan -
Twenty-six. Slim, fair-skinned, with a well-shaped frame that carried an easy confidence.
His face was clean, barely touched by facial hair, giving him a sharp yet effortless charm.
Handsome in a way that didn't try too hard, his smile still carried that same rebellion against the world's seriousness.
