The afternoon sun, a stark contrast to the oil lamps of the previous night, filtered through the woven walls of Biren's hut, casting long, dusty rays across the earthen floor.
Varun's eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened.
His vision was blurry, his head a dull throb, but the world was gradually coming into focus.
He found himself lying on a coarse woven mat, the air thick with the unfamiliar scents of woodsmoke and the brackish tang of the nearby mangroves.
He tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness washing over him. His body ached, but the pain was surprisingly muted, a dull echo of the brutal impact he vaguely remembered.
He looked around the hut, his eyes taking in the simple furnishings, the earthen walls, the strange, archaic tools hanging from the rafters.
It was nothing like the sleek, tech-infused world he knew. As he moved, a soft gasp caught his attention.
Kajal, the teenage girl from the previous night, sat near the doorway, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
She had been watching him, her gaze unwavering, since he began to stir. Her presence, a silent observer, added to Varun's growing sense of disorientation.
He tried to speak, his voice a raspy whisper. "Where... where am I?"
Kajal, startled by his voice, hesitated for a moment before replying in fluent Bengali. "Tumi Gosaba-te achho. Amader gram. Sundarban-e, Kolkata-r kache." (You are in Gosaba. Our village. In the Sundarbans, near Kolkata.)
Gosaba? Sundarbans? Varun's mind raced, trying to reconcile the simple hut with the bustling metropolis he knew.
He looked at Kajal, her clothes, her demeanor, the lack of any modern technology. He understood that something was very wrong.
A moment of silence hung in the air, then Varun spoke, his voice still weak. "My name is Varun."
Chaukidar, hearing Varun's voice, entered the hut. His face, etched with concern, held a mixture of relief and apprehension.
"You are awake, Varun," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I am Biren. We found you near the banyan tree, unconscious. You had strange machines with you."
Just as Biren finished speaking, a voice, clear and resonant, echoed within Varun's mind.
It was Daivik. "Varun, system diagnostics complete. Temporal displacement confirmed.
Location: Gosaba, Sundarbans, India. Approximate year: 1945. Precise temporal coordinates unavailable."
Varun's eyes widened, a flicker of panic in their depths. He looked around the hut, his gaze darting between Biren and Kajal.
How could he explain the voice in his head, the AI that had brought him here?
"Do not reveal my presence," Daivik continued, its voice calm and authoritative. "We must assess the situation and formulate a plan. Your priority is to gather information and remain inconspicuous."
Varun, his mind reeling, tried to maintain his composure. He looked at Kajal, his voice strained. "Strange machines... yes. I... I don't remember much. I must have hit my head. What... what year is it? And... what is the date?" He asked, his voice deliberately casual, looking at Kajal.
Kajal looked at him, confused by the question. "It is 1945. The month is January. The day, I think, is the 10th."
Varun's heart sank. January 10th, 1945. The end of World War II was imminent. He was trapped in a pivotal moment in history, a world on the cusp of change.
He looked at Biren and Kajal, their faces filled with concern, and knew that he had to tread carefully.
He was a stranger in a strange land, his mind a battleground for the ASI, Daivik, and the echoes of a life he had left behind, now trapped in the heart of the Sundarbans, 1945.
He tried to stand, but Biren gently pushed him back down. "You should rest, Varun. You lost a lot of blood last night."
"I concur, Varun. Exertion is ill-advised at this time," Daivik's voice echoed in his mind.
But Varun, despite the protests, was determined to see the world outside. He needed to understand where he was, to grasp the reality of his situation.
"I need to see," he said, his voice weak but firm, and surprisingly, he spoke in fluent Bengali. "Aami baire dekhte chaai." (I want to see outside.)
Biren and Kajal exchanged shocked glances. Varun, unaware of his own fluency, was equally astonished. He had just spoken in a language he had never consciously learned.
Biren, recovering from his surprise, helped him to his feet, and with Kajal following close behind, they walked out of the hut.
Varun's breath caught in his throat. The scene before him was a world away from the neon-lit streets of 2025 Bangalore.
Lush green mangroves stretched as far as the eye could see, a vibrant tapestry of nature.
The village, a cluster of simple huts, hummed with life. People worked in the fields, their movements rhythmic and ancient.
Children played, their laughter echoing through the air. There was no technology, no gleaming skyscrapers, no digital hum.
Just the raw, unadulterated beauty of nature and the simple, resilient spirit of humanity.
Varun was astonished. He saw poverty, yes, the absence of modern comforts, but he also saw smiles, a quiet dignity, a connection to the earth that he had never experienced in his own time.
It was a world both alien and strangely beautiful, a world he was now a part of, a world he had to understand if he was to survive.
He murmured to himself, his voice barely a whisper, "Aami kokhono erokom dekhi ni... eto anondo, eto saralta..." (I have never seen anything like this... so much joy, so much simplicity.)
Biren and Kajal, standing beside him, exchanged confused glances.
They had lived their entire lives in this village, surrounded by the same scenery, the same rhythm of life.
To them, it was simply India, their India. How could someone not have seen this before?
"What do you mean, Varun?" Kajal asked, her brow furrowed, still in Bengali. "Tumi ki ei rokom gram aage dekhoni?" (Have you not seen villages like this before?)
Varun hesitated, realizing the implications of his words. "It's... it's different where I'm from," he said, trying to choose his words carefully, still in Bengali. "Aami je shohor theke eshechi, seta onek alada." (The city I come from is very different.)
Biren, his eyes narrowed, studied Varun's face. "Different? Are you from a city far away? Or... from another country?"
He gestured towards the strange machines that had been brought back with Varun. "That would explain these things."
Varun's mind raced. He couldn't reveal the truth, not yet. He needed to buy time, to gather information, to understand the world he had been thrust into.
"A city," he said, his voice strained, in Bengali. "Onek boro shohor, ekhane theke onek dure." (A very big city, very far from here.)
The suspicion in Biren's eyes didn't fade. He nodded slowly, still studying Varun. "A big city... with machines like those?