As the words of his speech faded into the night, Isarish walked through the dimly lit streets of Calcutta. The city was quieter now, the chaos of the day giving way to an eerie stillness. The British and Indian districts alike seemed to hold their breath, as if weighed down by an invisible presence.
The weight of Carlson's words still lingered in his mind. Ishvarashapa... The Curse of God... The name carried a strange power, a foreboding sense of something beyond human understanding.
As he reached his home, a modest yet well-kept place near the bustling markets, he sighed, pushing the door open. The wooden floor creaked under his boots as he stepped inside. He poured himself a glass of water, staring blankly at the flickering lantern in the corner of the room.
He was exhausted. Both in body and mind.
The cases, the whispers, the deaths—it was all starting to connect. But something was still missing. A thread he hadn't yet pulled.
Shaking off the thoughts, he undid his coat and lay down on the small cot, staring at the ceiling. Sleep came slowly, creeping up on him like a silent predator.
And then—
Darkness
He was trembling. Discomfort twisted through his body as the nightmare unfolded.
A garden. Laughter.
A child, slightly older than him, playing beside him.
"Veer!"
The name echoed through his mind, his heart clenching at the familiarity of it.
And then, like a reel of an old memory unravelling, the boy's voice—soft but urgent—spoke again.
"If I don't come again, it means I know the truth."
His small figure was being pulled away. Another child—faceless, shadowed—grasping his wrist, dragging him further and further.
"No!" Isarish wanted to call out. Wanted to stop him. Wanted to understand.
The boy turned, his eyes filled with something between fear and resignation.
And then—
Darkness again.
Isarish jolted awake, his breath heavy, his body drenched in sweat. His hand stretched forward as if trying to grasp something—or someone—before they slipped away into the abyss of his dreams.
The echo of the child's voice still rang in his ears.
"Veer."
That name—so familiar, yet distant. It stirred something deep inside him, a memory long buried under layers of time.
He ran a trembling hand through his hair, his heart pounding against his ribs. The dream felt too real. The laughter, the garden, the boy's voice—it wasn't just a dream. It was a memory.
"If I don't come again, it means I know the truth."
The words sent a shiver down his spine. What truth? What had the boy discovered? And why was he being taken away?
He tried to recall the child's face, but it was blurry—like a painting smudged by time. Yet, the emotion it carried was crystal clear.
Loss.
Pain.
A bond severed before its time.
Isarish sat still for a moment, trying to steady his breath. His room was silent, the dim moonlight casting eerie shadows on the walls. But inside him, a storm raged.
This was not just a nightmare. It was a piece of a past he didn't fully remember.
And somehow, he knew—
This was only the beginning.
4:30 AM (DAWN)
The Fajr Azaan and a Lingering Fear
Isarish sat frozen, his breath uneven, sweat clinging to his skin. His body trembled as the weight of the nightmare pressed against his chest.
"It can't be true." His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. It sent waves of unease through his soul.
Just then, the call to Fajr prayer rang through the quiet streets of Calcutta. The echo of the Azaan cut through the heaviness of his thoughts, grounding him back to reality.
"Allahu Akbar... Allahu Akbar..."
The melody of faith washed over him, pushing away the darkness of the nightmare—if only for a moment. He took a deep breath, rubbing his face before standing up. The nightmare felt like a message, a glimpse into something he had long forgotten.
But for now, there was no time to dwell on the past.