They rode through the streets of Bhubaneswar. The city was alive around them, people rushing home, street vendors calling out their prices, children running between parked cars. Young Veda drifted alongside the bike like a kite on an invisible string, passing through pedestrians who never noticed him.
"There," Young Veda said, pointing.
A small food stall sat at the corner of a busy intersection. A faded red canopy stretched over a wooden cart. A hand painted sign hung from the front: Classic Dosa Wala.
Veda pulled over. Parked the bike. Got off.
The smell hit him first. Warm. Spicy. The rich aroma of roasting ghee, fermented rice batter, and something sweet he could not name. His stomach growled.
A few people sat on plastic stools around the cart, eating from banana leaves, their faces content. The cook was an old man with a white mustache and quick hands, spreading batter on a hot flat griddle with practiced ease.
Veda walked up to the cart.
"One plate," he said.
The old man nodded. Didn't ask what kind. Just smiled and got to work.
Veda watched him. The way he poured the batter. The way it sizzled when it hit the hot surface. The way he spread it thin and even, using the back of a ladle in a perfect spiral. A drizzle of oil around the edges. A sprinkle of salt. Then the fillings: spiced potatoes, onions, mustard seeds, curry leaves, all folded inside the crisp golden shell.
The dosa came out hot. Steam rose from its surface. The cook slid it onto a large green banana leaf and handed it to Veda.
It was beautiful. Crisp and golden brown, almost translucent at the edges, with darker spots where the batter had caramelized. It was longer than his forearm, rolled into a perfect cylinder, the yellow of the potatoes peeking out from one end. A small cup of coconut chutney sat beside it, white and creamy, dotted with fresh coriander. Another cup held sambar, dark and rich, chunks of vegetables floating in the broth.
Veda took the banana leaf. Found an empty stool. Sat down.
He broke off a piece of the dosa. The crisp shell cracked under his fingers. He dipped it in the coconut chutney, then in the sambar.
He took a bite.
His eyes closed.
The taste flooded his mouth. The crunch of the dosa. The soft heat of the potatoes. The cool sweetness of the chutney. The tangy depth of the sambar. It was perfect. It was home.
He took another bite. Then another.
Young Veda floated beside him, cross legged in the air, chin resting on his palm.
"Is it tasty, child?"
Veda nodded, his mouth full. He swallowed.
"Yes. So much." He took another bite. "When I was little, I used to eat this every day. There was a stall near our house. My mother would give me five rupees and I would run there after school."
He smiled. A real smile. Small. Distant.
"It was the best part of my day."
Young Veda watched him eat. Said nothing for a long moment.
Then: "Why did you not fight them?"
Veda's hand paused over the dosa.
"Veer and his friends. They put food on your head. They humiliated you in front of everyone. You could have hurt them. You have hurt stronger men."
Veda put the piece of dosa in his mouth. Chewed slowly. Swallowed.
"They are strong," he said. "I cannot defend against an upcoming Stage One Vessel candidate. He could kill me."
Young Veda raised an eyebrow.
"I do not want to die." Veda took another bite. "I want to live this life. I know what you are going to say next. I do not care what people think of me."
Young Veda floated in silence. His ancient face was unreadable.
"You are not weak," he said finally. "You have me. I am one of the supreme Devas. One of the strongest souls that has ever existed. I told you before. Let us make a contract."
He drifted closer, his voice dropping to something quieter, more serious.
"Look, child. This world is dangerous. You cannot survive as a normal person. Especially when the world itself wants you to be strong. The Cosmic Law chose you. That is not a gift. It is a target on your back."
Veda looked at him. Held his gaze for a long moment.
Then he looked back at his food. Picked up another piece of dosa. Dipped it in the sambar.
He kept eating.
Young Veda sighed. The sound was ancient, tired, the sigh of someone who had watched countless souls make the same mistake.
He turned his attention to the street. To the people walking past. To the vendors and the children and the old men playing chess on a cardboard board.
"This world," Young Veda said, "the people here sure look unique."
Veda glanced up. Confused.
Young Veda was looking at something behind him. Smiling. That ancient, knowing smile.
Veda turned.
The dosa slipped from his fingers.
It fell onto the banana leaf with a soft thud. His hand stayed in the air, frozen, as if the world had pressed pause and forgotten to tell him.
Across the street, walking out of a small fabric shop, was a girl.
Her hair was long and black, tied back in a simple ponytail that swayed with each step. Her face was round and soft, the kind of face that looked like it had never learned how to be cruel. She wore a green salwar kameez, the fabric simple but clean, and it moved gently against her legs as she walked.
She was looking at something in her hand. A small mirror. She was checking her reflection, turning her face left and right, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
The same green.
The same face.
The same eyes.
Gita.
The spoon fell from Veda's other hand. It hit the ground with a small clatter that he did not hear. His mouth opened. His lips trembled. His chest rose and fell once, twice, three times, each breath harder than the last.
The tears came.
Not the slow, controlled tears of a soldier who had learned to grieve in silence. These tears were hot. Fast. Unstoppable. They flooded his eyes and spilled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin onto the banana leaf, mixing with the coconut chutney.
He did not wipe them away.
He could not move.
"Gita..."
The word came out as a whisper. A breath. A prayer he had whispered into the dark a thousand times, hoping someone would hear.
She did not hear him.
She was too far away. Too lost in her own world. She put the mirror back in her small bag and linked her arm through the arm of a man who had been standing beside her. Tall. Lean. Kind eyes. A gentle smile.
They walked together. Close. Comfortable. Like two people who had found something precious and were careful not to break it.
Veda stood up.
The stool fell over behind him. He did not notice.
He walked across the street. His legs moved without his permission. The crowd parted around him, people stepping aside, someone cursing, someone asking if he was okay. He heard none of it.
"Gita!"
His voice was louder now. Desperate.
She kept walking. The man beside her said something that made her laugh. That laugh. Bright and cheerful and full of life. The same laugh that had filled their tiny balcony in Puri on the night they named their unborn child.
"GITA!"
She stopped.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
The world stopped.
The sounds of the street vanished. The vendors stopped calling. The children stopped running. The two suns hung motionless in the sky. There was only her. Only those dark brown eyes, wide with curiosity and confusion, looking at him like he was a stranger.
Because to her, he was.
The man beside her frowned. He looked at Veda, then at her, then back at Veda.
"Do you know him?"
Gita shook her head slowly. Her eyes never left Veda's face.
"No. I don't know him."
She took a small step forward. Tilted her head. The small mole beside her left eye caught the light.
"How do you know my name? Do I know you?"
Veda's throat closed.
The words were there. All of them. A lifetime of words he had never gotten to say. He wanted to tell her everything. About the small room in Puri. About the wedding. About circling the fire seven times while she smiled at him like he was the only man in the world. About the baby. About the night everything broke.
But none of that had happened here.
Here, she was a stranger.
Here, she had never heard his name before today.
Here, she was happy.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. His lips moved but no sound came out. He was hiding his cry behind his closed teeth, swallowing the sob that wanted to tear out of his chest.
Then he smiled.
It was the hardest smile he had ever worn.
"Ah... I am sorry." His voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat. Forced himself to breathe. "I thought you were someone else. Someone I used to know. Her name was also Gita."
Her face softened. The confusion faded into something gentler. Something kind.
"Ohhh, same name? That is so funny."
She laughed again. That bright, cheerful laugh. Her whole face lit up like a lamp being lit in a dark room. Her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks flushed. She looked at the man beside her and squeezed his arm.
"You know what they say? Every person has seven duplicates in the world. Seven people who look exactly like them. Maybe I am one of hers."
The man laughed with her. His arm wrapped around her shoulder. Protective. Loving. Proud.
"Seven duplicates," he said. "Imagine that. There are seven more of you running around. The world is not safe."
She hit his chest playfully. "I am perfectly safe, thank you very much."
They laughed together. Easy. Natural. The way two people laugh when they have laughed a thousand times before.
Veda watched them.
Her face was shining. Not just from the light of the two suns, but from something inside her. Something warm. Something alive. She looked like a goddess who had borrowed a human body, too bright to look at directly, too beautiful to forget.
This Gita had never known pain.
This Gita had never been hungry.
This Gita had never watched her mother die in a cot, or held her husband while he sobbed on the floor, or lost a child before it drew its first breath.
This Gita had never met him.
And standing there, watching her laugh with another man, Veda realized something that broke what was left of his heart.
She was better off without him.
He had spent thirteen years mourning her. Thirteen years killing for her. Thirteen years carrying her ashes in a small white cloth against his chest.
And she was here. Alive. Happy. Loved.
Without him.
He smiled again. The smile of a man who had learned to swallow his own heart.
"I am sorry for bothering you," he said. His voice was steady now. Calm. The voice of a man who had buried too many things to break over one more. "Take care of yourselves."
He turned to walk away.
Then stopped.
He looked back at her. At the green salwar kameez. At the way the evening light caught the edge of her jaw. At the small mole beside her left eye that he had kissed a thousand times.
"That green salwar kameez," he said quietly. "It looks good on you."
Her laughter stopped.
For a moment, just a moment, something flickered across her face. Something deep. Something old. Something that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with the soul.
Her smile faded. Her eyes searched his face.
And for one breath, one heartbeat, one impossible second, it was like there was no crowd. No street. No two suns in the sky. Just them. Just Veda and Gita, standing in an empty space that belonged only to them.
"Do I... do I know you?" she whispered.
Veda looked at her.
He wanted to say yes. He wanted to fall to his knees and tell her everything. He wanted to hold her face in his hands and say, I am your husband. We were married on 7 March 2026. You wore a red sari with gold threading. You smiled at me like I was the whole world. And I lost you. I lost you and I have never stopped looking for you.
But he said nothing.
He just shook his head.
"No. You don't know me."
He turned.
And walked away.
He walked at first. Normal pace. Calm.
Then faster.
Then he was running.
His feet pounded the pavement. His bag bounced against his back. People jumped out of his way, shouted at him, cursed him. He heard none of it.
His teeth were clenched so tight his jaw ached. His eyes burned. The wind whipped his long hair behind him, tears flying off his cheeks like drops of rain, falling onto the hot street and disappearing.
He ran like a man being chased by his own ghost.
He turned into a narrow alley between two buildings. Empty. Quiet. The sounds of the street faded.
He collapsed against the wall. Slid down until he was sitting on the ground, knees drawn up, back pressed against the rough brick.
And he cried.
Not the quiet tears of a soldier. Not the controlled grief of a man who had learned to hide his pain.
He cried like a child. Loud. Ugly. His whole body shaking. His hands covering his face. His shoulders heaving with every sob.
"I finally saw her," he whispered between breaths. "I thought I would never see her again. I thought... I thought she was gone forever."
He wiped his face with his sleeve. But the tears kept coming.
"If I had spoken to her... if I had told her the truth... what would I even say? 'I am your husband from another world'? She would think I was crazy."
He laughed. A broken, hollow sound.
"She is happy. She is safe. Her eyes still have that light. That brightness. The same eyes that used to look at me like I was the whole world."
He pressed his forehead to his knees.
"Thank God. Thank God she is okay."
Young Veda appeared beside him. Floating. Silent. His ancient face held no smile this time. Just stillness.
"If you miss her so much," Young Veda said quietly, "why did you run? Now you are here, crying like a little child."
Veda lifted his head. His eyes were red. His cheeks were wet. But his voice was steady.
"She is not the Gita I know."
He looked at his open hand. The hand that had held her on their wedding night. The hand that had carried her to the hospital. The hand that had scattered her ashes into the Mahanadi.
"My Gita... she is gone. She died in my arms. I held her hand while the machines flatlined. I built her pyre with my own hands on a muddy riverbank. No one came. No priest. No family. Just me and the fire and the sound of the water."
His voice cracked.
"My Gita is only one. And no one will ever take her place."
He closed his hand into a fist. Held it against his chest.
Young Veda watched him. Said nothing. Just floated there, ancient and patient, like a star that had seen a million men cry and would see a million more.
"She is happy," Veda said. "That is enough. That has to be enough."
He stood up. Brushed the dust from his clothes. Wiped his face one last time.
"Let's go home."
The front door opened.
"I am home."
The smell of spices hit him immediately. Cumin. Turmeric. Ginger. Garlic frying in hot oil. The sounds of pots clanging, water boiling, his mother humming an old song. The same song she used to hum in Puri. The same song she had hummed while stirring dal on a kerosene stove in a room with peeling green walls.
He stepped inside. Took off his shoes. Placed his bag by the door.
His father sat at the dining table, newspaper spread in front of him, glasses low on his nose. He looked up. Nodded.
"Beta. You are late."
"Got held up."
His mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face was flushed from the heat, a smudge of flour on her cheek. Her hair was messy. She looked tired. She looked beautiful.
"Veda! Dinner is almost ready. Go wash yourself. You are all sweaty."
She noticed his eyes. Red. Puffy. Swollen.
Her smile faded.
"Beta... have you been crying?"
Veda looked at her. At this woman who had died alone in a cot while he slept in the next room. At this woman who was alive and healthy and cooking dinner for him.
He walked to her. Wrapped his arms around her. Held her tight.
She froze for a moment, surprised. Then her arms came up around him, her hands rubbing slow circles on his back.
"Something got in my eye," he said into her shoulder. His voice was muffled. "Dust. The roads are dusty."
His mother held him tighter. She did not believe him. Mothers always know. But she did not push.
"Okay, beta," she whispered. "Go wash up. I am making your favorite."
"What are we having?"
"Luchi and aloo tarkari. The same as this morning. You did not get to finish yours."
Veda pulled back. Looked at her face. At the small lines around her eyes. At the way her hair fell across her forehead.
"Sounds perfect, maa."
He walked toward the stairs. Passed his father. The old man reached out and patted his arm. Just once. Just a small touch. But his hand lingered.
"Take your time, beta," his father said quietly. "We will wait for you."
Veda stopped.
He looked at his father. At the tired eyes behind the thick glasses. At the gray hair that had come too soon. At the lines on his face that had been carved by worry and love and the fear of losing his son.
This man. The one who had run away in another life. The one who had left a woman alone with a newborn and never looked back.
In this life, he had stayed.
In this life, he was here. Every morning. Every night. Reading his newspaper. Drinking his tea. Waiting for his son to come home.
Veda felt something crack inside his chest. Not break. Crack. Like ice on a frozen river when spring finally comes.
He smiled.
Not the fake smile he had worn for strangers. Not the cold smile of the hunter. Not the broken smile of a man hiding his tears.
A real smile. Small. Tired. But real.
"I will, Papa," he said. "Thank you."
His father's eyes went wide behind his glasses.
For a moment, the old man did not move. Did not breathe. Then his chin trembled. His eyes filled with tears. He looked away quickly, pretending to adjust his glasses, but Veda saw.
He saw everything.
Veda climbed the stairs. Reached his room. Closed the door.
Young Veda appeared in the corner. Floating. Watching.
He was silent for a long moment. Then he smiled. Not the cheerful smile. Something smaller. Softer. Almost human.