Sunday morning,
The sun had barely risen, but the city was already stirring.
Cars hummed. Vendors shouted half-heartedly into the dusty morning haze. And somewhere, not even thirty minutes from their house, a bar was already open. A group of young boys laughed as they entered, eyes dull and hands full of weekend plans.
In another part of the city, a different journey was taking place.
They arrived at the Krishna Mandir a little after 8 a.m.
The temple stood tall and vast—an ancient structure that had survived time, war, modernisation, and now, something worse: neglect.
Its sandstone pillars were still strong, its carved archways still whispered of skilled hands and divine stories. But the silence was louder than the bells. The marble underfoot felt cool, untouched. The air smelled of old incense and something older—memories.
It should have been crowded.
But it wasn't.
Aside from a few elderly women, draped in faded sarees, and a single temple priest adjusting the garland around the deity, the mandir was quiet. Too quiet for its size.
They stepped in one by one—Meera, Kavita, Radha, and the entire bunch of teens who usually wouldn't even get up this early.
The priest looked up, blinking in mild disbelief. One of the older women gasped softly.
"So many people…" she whispered, a weathered hand reaching to tug her dupatta over her head properly. "It's been days since I saw this mandir full."
Another woman, bent and fragile, gave a toothless smile. "Maybe God will finally open His eyes today."
Karna watched them from the back, silent.
Diya, who quietly held a puja thali in her hands,followed Meera's lead.
The priest welcomed them with warmth. He didn't ask for donations or names. Just guided them gently through the rituals of worship, his voice calm and deep with bhakti.
> Oil lamps were lit.
Bells were rung.
The sacred thread was tied around their wrists.
Sandalwood paste, vermillion, and tulsi leaves were offered.
The fragrance of camphor and ghee filled the air as the aarti began.
Karna stood still in the far end of the mandap, staring at the idol of Vasudev Krishna.
The deity sat in majestic grace—smiling faintly, flute in hand, eyes that seemed to know too much. His presence was not carved in stone. It was the stone.
The chant of "Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya" echoed through the empty dome, and for a fleeting moment, the temple felt full—of something unseen, sacred, and very much alive.
Karna didn't join the aarti.
Instead, once it ended and the group moved to receive the prasad, he quietly slipped away, walking toward the back of the mandir.
There was a small courtyard there—flanked by neem trees and shaded stone benches. The wind rustled through tulsi shrubs and prayer flags tied carelessly around a rusty railing.
And there he found Arnav.
Sitting on the stone slab, elbows resting on his knees, staring into nothing.
Quiet. Still.
So unlike the Arnav they knew. But more like Arjun.
Karna frowned.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, stepping closer.
Arnav didn't turn. "Just breathing."
"You're unusually silent based on what I have seen."
"Don't get used to it," Arnav muttered, and then added, "And don't start preaching."
Karna rolled his eyes. "You came to a mandir. Did you even want to come or just came because of maa?"
Arnav smirked dryly. "I didn't want to come. Shocking, huh?"
"…Yeah."
There was silence between them for a few seconds.
Then Arnav exhaled and said something Karna didn't expect.
> "It feels like… like I've come to an old friend's house."
Karna blinked. "What?"
"I'm not kidding," Arnav muttered. "Every time I come here, even as a kid, it messes with my head. Like this place knows me. And that idol… Shree Krishna's murti? I try not to look at it. It makes me feel… dizzy. Like I'm falling into a memory I shouldn't have."
Karna stared at him.
The breeze stilled.
"…You remember," Karna said slowly.
Arnav turned toward him, frowning.
"Remember what?"
Karna's breath caught.
The same tone.
The same confusion.
The same denial.
But behind Arnav's eyes—just for a split second—there was that familiar glint. A sharp, aching recognition.
Not with the mind.
But the soul.
"You idiot," Karna whispered, "you are Arjun. Vasudev's dear friend."
Arnav looked startled. "What the hell are you saying—?Not again please. And what did you say?Shree Krishna is my friend?"
"I don't care if you're still pretending," Karna interrupted, sitting beside him. "You just said it feels like an old friend's house. Yet you keep dismissing the truth. You are Always arguing, always deflecting."
He turned and faced him fully.
"But you remember more than you admit."
Arnav didn't respond.
He just looked away.
As if he didn't want to admit something to even himself. He was wondering if Karan's madness was getting in his own head as well.
Karna sighed and leaned back, letting his head rest against the old stone wall.
"Fine. Run from it. Be Arnav. But when the time comes—and it will come—you will realize that I am telling the truth. "
Arnav sighed. "If you are really Karna and I am Arjun, doesn't that mean that you lost to me? Is that why my existence is irritating you that much? You must be a sore loser bhaiya."
"You were never stronger than me. You just had fate and God himself on your side." Karna tried to get back to him. But it definitely wasn't anything for Arnav to feel insulted.
Arnav cracked a dry smile. "Is not that called luck? Thanks for the compliment. Also,I am more handsome and intelligent than you. You can beat me at nothing."
Karna smirked. "Delusion is strong in this one."
And somewhere, in the quiet of the Krishna Mandir, the wind picked up again.
As if someone was watching.
Someone smiling.
Someone waiting.
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