A week had passed since Vanshika's meeting with the Acharya.
Yet not a single day had gone by without her thinking about his words.
"Samaya Chakra ne antatah tumhe is samaya tak pahuncha hi diya." (The Cycle of Time has finally brought you to this age.)
"Kuch yatraein samapt nahi hoti." (Some journeys never truly end.)
"Kuch kartavya samaya ke saath vilupt nahi hote." (Some duties do not disappear with the passing of time.)
And then...
"In this Samaya Chakra... you are known as Vatsanavi."
The name continued to linger in her mind.
Vatsanavi.
Who was she?
And why had the Acharya looked at her as though he had known her for years?
Most importantly, how had he known she was not from this time?
Unfortunately, the only person capable of answering those questions was no longer in the Gurukul.
The Acharya had departed for the mountains shortly after their meeting.
No one seemed concerned by his absence.
Whenever Vanshika asked about him, the answer remained the same.
"The Acharya will return when his work is complete."
Not exactly useful.
And so she waited.
Days passed peacefully within the Gurukul.
Gradually, she adapted to its rhythm.
The early morning prayers.
The recitation of sacred texts.
The lessons beneath ancient banyan trees.
The long hours spent studying palm-leaf manuscripts.
Much of what was taught fascinated her.
Some subjects were familiar.
Astronomy.
Mathematics.
Philosophy.
She had studied them before in her own era.
Yet here they felt different.
Not simplified.
Not modernized.
But pure.
Closer to their origins.
Whenever lessons ended, Vanshika could usually be found among the manuscripts.
Reading.
Observing.
Searching.
She no longer needed confirmation that she was in the distant past.
The evidence surrounded her.
The style of writing.
The language.
The customs.
The traditions.
Piece by piece, she assembled the truth.
This era existed long before the invasions she had read about in history books.
Long before countless kingdoms rose and fell.
Long before the world she knew.
The realization should have frightened her.
Instead, she found herself mesmerized.
The Gurukul was peaceful.
The mountains were beautiful.
Life moved more slowly here.
Sometimes she found herself simply watching the students as they practiced archery in the training grounds or debated beneath the shade of ancient trees.
For brief moments, she forgot about the impossible circumstances that had brought her here.
Almost.
Because the questions never truly left her.
Every answer only seemed to create new mysteries.
And then there were the dreams.
Or rather...
The lack of them.
For years, the same nightmare had followed her.
Fire.
Smoke.
Screams.
A burning memory she could never fully understand.
Yet ever since arriving here, the nightmare had vanished.
A full week had passed without a single glimpse of flames.
Without waking in terror.
Without hearing those distant screams.
Perhaps it was finally over.
That night, after the evening bhojan, Vanshika returned to her chamber.
Moonlight streamed through the open window.
The cool mountain breeze carried the scent of night-blooming flowers.
For a while, she sat silently beneath the moonlight.
Listening.
Thinking.
Waiting.
Waiting for answers.
Waiting for the Acharya.
Waiting for something she couldn't quite name.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her.
And sleep came quietly.
...
Chhan.
Chhan.
Chhan.
The soft melody of silver anklets echoed through the air.
Bright laughter followed.
A little girl raced through a vast royal garden.
Her tiny feet barely touched the stone pathways.
Sunlight danced across blooming flowers while a gentle breeze carried the fragrance of jasmine.
Silver anklets shimmered around her ankles.
Behind her, a woman hurried after her with little success.
"Vatsanavi!"
The woman called.
"Putri, bas bhi karo." (Child, that's enough now.)
The little girl only laughed harder.
Flower petals scattered in her wake.
"Vatsanavi!"
The woman placed a hand against her forehead dramatically.
"Bhojan ka samay ho gaya hai." (It is time for the meal.)
"Aao, bhojan grahan kar lo." (Come, have your meal.)
"Nahi!" (No!)
The little girl spun around.
Her laughter echoed throughout the garden.
The woman shook her head helplessly.
"What am I supposed to do with you?"
The child stretched out both arms.
A radiant smile appeared on her face.
"Ma!"
"pehle hume Pakad ke dikhaiye!" (Catch me if you can!)
The woman laughed despite herself and moved forward.
Just as she was about to catch the child—
A voice echoed from somewhere beyond the garden.
Deep.
Warm.
Familiar.
The little girl's eyes immediately brightened.
She turned toward the sound.
Excitement filled her face.
As though someone precious had arrived.
As though the person she had been waiting for all day had finally returned.
Yet before the figure could be seen...
Before the voice could speak again...
The garden dissolved into darkness.
The sound of the shankh echoed once more through the mountains.
A bell rang shortly after.
Announcing the beginning of Brahma Muhurta—the sacred hours before sunrise.
Vanshika stirred.
Slowly opening her eyes.
The faint light of dawn filtered through the window.
For several moments, she remained still.
Listening to the sounds of the awakening Gurukul.
Her heart felt strangely heavy.
The dream was already slipping away.
The garden.
The woman.
The laughter.
All fading like morning mist beneath the rising sun.
Yet one thing remained.
A name.
Vatsanavi.
Vanshika blinked.
Only then did she realize her cheeks were damp.
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
Then another.
She frowned.
Confused.
There had been no fire.
No screams.
No terror.
Only laughter.
Only warmth.
Only the image of a woman chasing after a mischievous child through a garden filled with flowers.
So why was she crying?
The answer never came.
Outside, the morning bell rang once more.
And somewhere deep within her heart lingered a longing she could not understand.
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