The office was beginning to empty out as twilight stretched its golden fingers across the skyline of Mumbai. Sidharth sat at his desk, finishing the last few lines of his daily report. His desk was a curated mess—notes scribbled in shorthand, half-drunk coffee, a few news clippings pinned haphazardly, and a photo of his old college team smiling in sepia. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples and mentally preparing to head home.
Just then, Unnati appeared at his desk, her bag slung over one shoulder, holding two paper cups of tea.
"No Marine Drive today?" she asked, a playful smirk curving her lips as she handed him one cup.
Sid chuckled softly. "Tempting, but no. I have to meet Mr. Sudarshan Verma. He sent me a location—wants to discuss something related to the sewage problem in the slum area."
"Can I come?" she asked without hesitation.
He looked up, surprised by her interest. "Sure, if you're okay tagging along on a work errand. It might not be the most fun evening."
Unnati shrugged. "Better than scrolling through my phone for hours. Besides, I've heard about this Sudarshan guy. Isn't he a bit of a mystery?"
As they descended the stairs and exited into the parking lot, Sid started explaining. "He's more than a mystery. He was a journalist before, a physicist by training. Childhood wasn't easy for him. His father worked as a government scientist. When a political revolt happened—an event still buried under national silence—his parents were killed."
"That's horrible," Unnati said softly as she fastened her seatbelt.
"Yeah," Sid sighed as he started the engine. "But what's even more interesting is that his father never wanted him to become a scientist. Forced him to take up journalism. But Sudarshan... he loved physics like it was stitched into his soul. He still pursued it. Secretly. Quietly."
Traffic was lighter than usual as they drove toward the north end of the city. The twilight glow wrapped the buildings in a warm hue, but Sidharth's voice had taken on a somber tone.
"He became one of those journalists who couldn't just watch. He reported injustice, but he also stepped in to fix it. Funded slum clean-up projects, taught kids science, and fought local corruption. That cost him a lot. His wife left him, took their daughter. Said he cared more about society than his own family."
Unnati stayed quiet, letting Sid continue.
"He still wears his wedding ring. Talks about his daughter like she's just away for school. But I don't think they've spoken in years."
The car eventually pulled into a narrow lane, where a rusted gate led to an old bungalow with a garden so wild it looked like nature was reclaiming it. The gate creaked open, and a soft porch light flickered on as they approached.
Sudarshan Verma was already waiting at the door. In his sixties, with silver hair pulled into a small ponytail, he wore a linen kurta and spectacles perched on his nose. His eyes were sharp but kind.
"Mr. Sidharth Menon," he greeted, offering his hand warmly. "I've been wanting to meet you. I've read your report on urban water contamination—it was sharp, articulate, and brutally honest."
Sid shook his hand, momentarily caught off guard by the praise. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot coming from someone like you."
"And who is this?" Sudarshan asked, looking at Unnati.
"Unnati Sharma. My colleague. She insisted on joining."
"Good," Sudarshan smiled. "It's always nice to see young minds eager to know more. Come in."
The inside of his home was a mixture of antique and modern—books stacked on every surface, old physics charts framed on walls, a globe that looked like it had survived wars, and digital equipment scattered across one table.
"Forgive the mess," he said. "I live alone. Books are better company than people sometimes."
They sat down, and Sudarshan poured them tea. Sid got straight to the point, discussing the sewage problems in the slums. Sudarshan nodded slowly.
"It's worse than what the media portrays. The contamination isn't just spreading illness. It's changing the soil quality. The groundwater is affected. And the local officials are deliberately ignoring it."
"We need data to publish," Sid said. "Otherwise, it's just another speculative article."
Sudarshan stood, walked to a nearby cabinet, and pulled out a folder. "Everything you'll need is in here—images, chemical analyses, witness statements. I've been collecting this for a while, but I needed someone like you—someone who wouldn't bury it for clicks."
As Sid took the folder, his eyes glanced around and landed on a chalkboard filled with complex equations.
"Still solving the universe's puzzles, sir?" he asked with a smile.
Sudarshan chuckled. "Some habits never die. Speaking of which… what do you think about the mysterious star?"
Sid perked up. "It's odd. Everyone's talking about it. Politicians are blaming it for network outages, activists are calling it a sign from the universe. And some conspiracy theorists say it's a weapon."
Sudarshan grew thoughtful. "That star—or whatever it was—burned through the upper atmosphere unnaturally slow. I saw the spectral data. It wasn't just debris. There were energy readings we don't usually get from space rocks."
Unnati raised a brow. "You think it was... man-made?"
"I think it was sent," Sudarshan replied.
A pause hung heavy in the room.
"Sent by who?" Sid finally asked.
"That's the question," Sudarshan murmured. "And why now? Why during a political crisis? Why when unemployment is skyrocketing and public trust in the government is at an all-time low? The media is too distracted with nonsense to ask the right questions."
Sid nodded slowly. "So what do we do?"
"We gather. We listen. We connect dots others ignore. The truth always leaves footprints—most just don't want to see them."
They continued talking deep into the evening—about atmospheric anomalies, power shifts in political circles, and how the arrival of the star strangely coincided with several classified leaks about underground research labs.
Sudarshan revealed a name—Project Kurukshetra—an abandoned initiative once sanctioned by the Indian Space Research wing but later buried.
"Kurukshetra?" Sid echoed. "Like the battlefield in Mahabharata?"
"Exactly," Sudarshan said. "It was supposed to be a last-resort defense mechanism against extra-terrestrial threats. But they discovered something they couldn't explain. Something they were afraid of. So they sealed it off."
Sid and Unnati exchanged glances.
"Why tell us this?" Unnati asked.
Sudarshan looked at Sid. "Because you're not like the others. You want to tell stories that matter. Stories that change the world. And I've done my part. I'm tired now. I need someone to carry it forward."
As the clock ticked past midnight, Sudarshan handed Sid a USB drive.
"This has everything I've collected. If anything happens to me... make sure the world knows."
Sid held it like it was fragile.
"And one more thing," Sudarshan added, "if you really want to understand what's coming, look at the girl from Marine Drive. She may not know it yet, but she's part of it."
Sid's eyes widened.
"How do you know about her?"
Sudarshan smiled faintly. "I know more than you think. She's connected to this. To everything. And she's in danger."
The three of them stood in silence for a moment, the room filled with an eerie energy. The faint sound of a clock ticking amplified the weight of their conversation.
Sudarshan walked to his bookshelf, pulling out an old, tattered diary. "This belonged to my father," he said. "He documented experiments—many of which were part of a project hidden even from his peers. I believe he was silenced. That revolt? It wasn't random. He knew something."
He handed the diary to Sid. Inside, faded pages carried diagrams of star maps, interstellar codes, and notes written in a language even Sid couldn't decipher.
"You'll need help to translate this," Sudarshan said. "Find Dr. Rajiv Mehra. He's the only one left from the original Kurukshetra project who's still alive and not afraid."
They spoke until the hour grew silent and heavy, the air now thick with knowledge and warnings.
As Sid and Unnati left, Sudarshan stood at his porch, watching them go. He whispered something—more to himself than anyone else.
"The wheel has turned. The center cannot hold."
Outside, the glow in the sky pulsed one last time.
It hadn't just arrived.
It was waiting.