Episode 2: The First Bell of Fate

  The morning air in Kalyani was crisp, stirred by the whisper of autumn leaves.

  I stood before the towering gates of KCMS Kalyani High School, my new battlefield.

  Four stories high — walls polished to a soft white, roofs lined with deep gray tiles, wooden beams peeking out like bones of an ancient shrine.

  It looked less like a school and more like a temple of knowledge.

  Neat rows of imported cherry blossom trees guarded the courtyard, their pink petals falling like a slow rain.

  Students flooded through the main entrance — laughter, footsteps, the hollow clatter of shoes on stone floors.

  I adjusted the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

  The cloth of my white shirt felt rough against my skin — too new.

  My heart was calm, steady. No excitement. No fear.

  Just observation.

  Another beginning.

  Another mask to wear.

  ---

  Inside, the halls were wide and airy, framed by dark wood paneling and sliding glass doors.

  Teachers stood near the entrance, checking names off clipboards.

  The air buzzed with energy.

  I caught glimpses —

  Groups of students laughing together.

  Girls fixing each other’s hair.

  Boys throwing casual punches.

  But when I entered—

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The noise softened.

  Heads turned.

  A strange silence rippled through the corridor like the echo of a struck bell.

  I didn’t need a mirror to know why.

  I had grown strangely beautiful over the years — a face too symmetrical, too still, like a statue carved by a forgotten god.

  Skin pale like early dawn.

  Hair blacker than river stones.

  Eyes — ancient, heavy with something no fifteen-year-old should carry.

  I felt their gazes. Curious. Awed. Uneasy.

  "Who is he?"

  "He doesn’t look Bengali..."

  "Look at his eyes... it's like he's looking through you..."

  Whispers rose and fell like the tide.

  But I kept walking — slow, steady — toward Class 10-C.

  ---

  I slid open the door.

  Thirty heads turned toward me.

  The homeroom teacher, a short, round man with kind eyes and a balding head, beamed.

  "Class," he said, tapping the board with a marker, "this is our new student — Varun Majumdar.

  He transferred from a private school. Please make him feel welcome."

  I bowed slightly, hands by my side, ancient habits bleeding through the modern gesture.

  "Would you like to introduce yourself, Varun?" the teacher asked.

  I hesitated.

  In Treta Yuga, I had recited hymns before kings and sages.

  But now — in a polyester uniform, before children who lived on phones and fast food — I simply said:

  "My name is Varun. I hope we can study well together."

  A polite lie.

  I had nothing to learn from them.

  Only memories to outrun.

  ---

  The teacher pointed to an empty desk by the window — third row from the back.

  The "wanderer's seat" — where the quiet ones sat.

  Perfect.

  I moved through the narrow rows, feeling the stares chase my back.

  As I sat, I caught the eyes of a boy near me — sharp, athletic, a thin scar cutting across his brow.

  He didn’t look away.

  Another — a girl with glasses and ink-stained fingers — scribbled my name onto the corner of her notebook, as if to claim it before anyone else.

  The bell rang again.

  The day began.

  ---

  But outside the window, far beyond the manicured gardens and neat fences,

  hidden among the rustling cherry trees,

  a shadow moved.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Its burnt skin blending into the bark.

  Its red eyes glinting with ancient malice.

  Vrindhakasura.

  The past was catching up.

  Faster than I had hoped.