At ten in the morning, Banaras was supposed to glow.
The city, usually drowned in sunlight, lay today beneath a heavy blanket of clouds, as if the sky itself was holding its breath. Banaras was no metropolis, yet it carried a rhythm of its own—too many people, endless horns, and a calm that moved like the Ganga: slow and eternal.
It was called the city of gods. People believed it was guarded by Kala Bhairava, the fierce keeper of time and direction. Pilgrims arrived every day to kneel before his temple.
But among all these believers lived a man who called it nothing more than myth.
Dr. Aman Mehta had devoted his life not to gods, but to medicine. He was one of the most renowned surgeons in the city; a man who trusted his scalpels more than prayers.
Ironically, he came from a long line of priests and sages—a family that measured life in rituals and mantras. Aman was the outlier. He measured life in heartbeats and the steady beep-beep of machines.
They say people change when the time is right.
I don't believe that.
I believe time changes people when it is done waiting. And that morning, time was done waiting for the doctor.
You ask me how I know all this? I was there to witness it. I was there to witness the beginning of an end.