Episode 3: The Shadow That Sat Beside Me

  Chalk squeaks. Fans whirl. A fly buzzes lazily against the window.

  Mr. Bhattacharya, our math teacher, is deep into solving linear equations.

  “So if Y equals MX plus B, and M is 2, X is 5…”

  My eyes stay open, but my soul is elsewhere.

  Yugas ago, I stood on mountaintops where the winds spoke in riddles.

  Now I sit here… calculating slopes.

  I doodle absentmindedly in my notebook — it starts as a spiral but becomes a Trishul, almost unconsciously.

  A strange ache burns at the base of my neck, like some invisible mark pulling at me.

  “Why today?”

  Outside, the cherry blossoms shed their pink like snowfall — almost too slow, too silent. Like omens.

  —

  The others in this room… they don’t remember anything.

  They were born in this Kali Yuga, raised by smartphones and shorts.

  But me?

  I’ve lived before.

  I’ve fought before.

  I glance toward the ceiling.

  The fan blades spin like a chakra.

  I died before, too.

  Mr. Bhattacharya suddenly calls out.

  “Varun? Solve question three on the board.”

  I rise slowly.

  “Do I solve it with algebra… or derive it from first principles of cosmic symmetry?”

  He sighs.

  “Math, Varun. Not metaphysics.”

  The class chuckles.

  I walk to the board, grip the chalk… and suppress the urge to draw ancient runes.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Instead, I solve the equation in three clean steps — fast. Too fast.

  The teacher blinks.

  “Well… that’s correct.”

  I nod and return to my seat, already drifting again.

  —

  RIIIIIIIING!

  The bell screams its freedom song.

  Books slam shut. Tiffins crack open. Bottles clatter.

  I move toward my usual corner seat by the window. My sanctuary.

  But not fast enough.

  The girls arrive.

  “Varun, why don’t you ever talk to anyone?”

  “You read such deep books… are you a poet?”

  “Your handwriting looks like it belongs in a royal scroll!”

  I try to vanish into my tiffin box.

  Two rotis. One aloo sabzi. No onions. Just like Dadu used to pack.

  “He eats like a monk,” one whispers.

  Someone pokes my hair.

  “What conditioner do you use?”

  “Ash,” I mutter. “From the fire of yagna.”

  She giggles, thinking it’s a joke.

  Another girl leans in, whispering excitedly:

  “I saw you touch a tree yesterday and it bloomed.”

  She isn’t wrong.

  But I don’t answer.

  —

  The door creaks open.

  Mr. Bhattacharya enters with someone behind him.

  “Quiet, everyone. We have a new student joining us from Naihati.”

  The class pauses. Someone drops a spoon.

  And then he walks in.

  Sourav Pal.

  Disheveled uniform. One shoelace undone. Hair like he just rolled out of bed.

  He waves like a cartoon character.

  “Hi! I’m Sourav! I eat too much, talk too much, and I might snore during exams!”

  Laughter explodes in the class.

  Girls already whispering. Boys sizing him up.

  He gives a peace sign to the backbenchers and fake cries at the teacher.

  “Please be kind, Sir. I’m emotionally fragile. Also… I can’t do long division.”

  Even Mr. Bhattacharya chuckles.

  “Alright, you can sit beside Varun.”

  My eyes lock onto him.

  And time slows.

  Just for a second.

  Because behind the goofy smile…

  Behind the crooked collar and casual charm…

  I see it.

  That aura. That crack in the veil.

  Like peeling back wallpaper and finding ancient blood runes.

  Vrindhakasura.

  He plops into the seat beside me and stretches.

  “Yo, bro. You look serious. What’s your vibe?

  Are you one of those anime loners with a dark past?”

  I blink.

  “Yes.”

  “Cool. I’m more of the ‘chaotic sidekick with secret power’ guy.”

  I grip my pencil tightly.

  This can’t be coincidence.

  He opens his lunchbox — four sandwiches and a bag of banana chips.

  “Want one?”

  This is the demon who once burned forests, devoured priests, and drank the blood of sages.

  “No, thank you.”

  —

  I thought he’d be monstrous. Towering. Glowing red eyes. Sharp teeth.

  But no. He’s… chirpy. Human. Clueless.

  Or is it all an act?

  He nudges me.

  “Yo, what’s that symbol on your notebook? Looks old.”

  I quickly close it.

  “Don’t recognize me yet, do you? Good.”

  But somewhere in his smile, there’s a twitch.

  A flicker. Like a curtain moving on its own.

  He doesn’t remember who he is yet…

  But when he does…

  Will I be ready?

  —

  As the teacher starts writing again, I glance sideways.

  He’s doodling a sword in his notebook.

  But not a cartoon sword.

  It’s… the exact shape of his ancient weapon.

  My throat tightens.

  He doesn’t notice.

  He’s just humming.

  “Hmm hmm hmm... paani puri, paani puri~”