As Aman hung up the phone, a cold, heavy unease settled in the pit of his stomach. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:15 AM. "My shift doesn't even start until the afternoon," he muttered to the empty room. "Is there another emergency? Can't the other 'gods' handle one complication?
Despite his grumbling, the doctor in him took over. He moved with practiced efficiency, dressing in a crisp, well-ironed formal shirt that contrasted sharply with his rugged warrior like build. To a stranger on the street, Aman Mehta looked like a bouncer or a high -ranking thug, but the precision of his attire always betrayed his intellect.
There was however, one wardrobe that never changed. Beneath his collar lay a faded silver chain holding a small, metallic golden sphere. It looked like a simple, heirloom, but if a jeweler were to peer closely at the gold, they would see it-a microscopic jagged engraving of a snake biting its own tail.
The exact same mark that was burned into the cover of the black book on his shelf. "Chuckles." The voice was louder now vibrating in the air around him. "Time is not always patient, and now he will see what happens when time makes you move."
Aman ignored the ringing in his ears and climbed onto his Harley. As he tore through the streets of Banaras, his heart hammered against his ribs- a frantic irregular rhythm that he couldn't diagnose. When he reached the hospital, he didn't stop to chat. He bypassed the crowded lobby and went straight to his private office.
In this hospital a private office was a rare trophy, reserved for the elite. Aman had earned his through blood, sweat ,and a zero-percent failure rate. The room was small and minimalistic, a sanctuary of order. Files were stacked with mathematical precision on his desk, and a glass cabinet, to the side held a collection of awards and trophies. He took a quiet pride in those gold-plated statues; they were the proof his scalpels were more powerful than any prayer.
He sank into his leather chair and pressed the intercom. "Nikita? come to my office now." As he waited his gaze drifted to the frame photograph on his desk. It was a frozen moment of a life that felt like a dream now, in the photo, Aman was grinning like a fool, his arm around a laughing Sophie. Standing beside them was a man who looked like he belonged to a different century- Aman's father.
The old man was dressed in a traditional white dhoti, his long hair flowing loose and a thick, salt-and-pepper beard covering his entire face and chest. He was beaming pride so intense it was visible through the gloss of the photo. He was proud of his son, the doctor. And there, hanging around the old priest's neck was the exact some golden sphere that now rested against Aman's chest.
A sharp knock at the door shattered his reverie. Nikita stepped in, her face as pale as the hospital wall, her hands clutching a clipboard so tightly her knuckles were white. "Sir", she whispered, her voice trembling. "sir the patient you operated on yesterday, he is not there sir."
As the words left Nikita's mouth, a violent buzzing erupted in Aman's ears sounding like a thousand hornets trapped inside his skull. His office-the one place on earth that was clean, structured, and logical-began to flicker at the edges.
His vision distorted, the walls seeming to breathe and bleed into the shadows. "Nikita....the form. Can i see it?" he asked. Huis voice barely a whisper. "Hmm, he really thinks a piece of paper will change the reality, amusing" While Nikita went to retrieve the file Nikita went to retrieve the file, paralyzed by a storm of a thousand thoughts struck him with the force of lightning bolt.
"Sophie, she was there. She was across from me at the table. She laid the retractors. She saw what i saw. I have to call her. But just as his fingers brushed his phone, the door creaked open.
Nikita stepped back into the room. "Sir here is the form," she said her voice eerily flat as she handled him the clipboard. Aman's hands shook like a dead leaves in a storm as he took the document.
His eyes scanned the ink desperate for a mistake, but the paper was cold and certain.
Anesthesia Withdrawal:07:50AM,
Procedure start: 08:00AM.
Final signature: Dr Aman Mehta
If the operation started at 8, he thought his chest tightening, until he could barely breathe. Then why did my phone say ten? in my memory, the sun was higher, the clock was different. Am i so broken, so stressed, that i am hallucinating entire hours of my life?"
Nikita stood there, her face a blank wall. To her this was just a Tuesday, But to Aman, the world was ending. "Sir i suggest you take a break." she said, her voice finally softening into a mask of worry. "There is no way you can do anything in this condition."
They say you can read a man's fear through his eyes, but as Nikita looked at Aman, she saw nothing. His eyes carried no color-just a hallow, empty void where a soul used to be.