Okay, you're right. Here is a draft of the revised Chapter 3, incorporating the fainting, Ananya's role, and the direct aftermath of the Chapter 2 confrontation.
Chapter 3: Echoes of the Forgotten
A dull throb pulsed behind Kunal's eyes. His vision swam, slowly resolving into the familiar cracks on the ceiling of his own bedroom. The air smelled faintly of damp clothes and something sharper… antiseptic? He tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness washing over him.
"Easy there." A gentle hand pressed against his shoulder. Ananya.
Her face swam into focus, etched with worry lines he'd rarely seen before. She was perched on the edge of his bed, holding a glass of water.
"Ananya?" His voice was rough, dry. "What… what happened?"
"Thank god you're awake," she breathed, relief flooding her features. "You really scared me, Kunal." She helped him sip some water before continuing. "I was waiting for you at the café… you never showed. Then, maybe an hour later, I got a call."
"A call?" he asked, confusion clouding his already aching head.
"From Kokilaben Hospital," she said, her voice low. "Some stranger found you collapsed on the street near your office building during that downpour. They called an ambulance. The paramedics checked you over – said you likely fainted from stress and exhaustion, maybe dehydration. They released you after checking your vitals, and since I was your last dialed number…" She trailed off, looking at him intently. "Kunal, what really happened? Don't give me the 'work stress' excuse. You don't just faint on the street."
He closed his eyes, the memories rushing back with dizzying intensity. The rain, the flickering streetlight, the two figures emerging from the gloom. The woman's voice inside his head. Kunala.
He took a deep, shaky breath and met Ananya's gaze. Her expression was open, waiting. He owed her the truth, the whole impossible truth.
"It wasn't stress, Annie," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "Last night… after I left the office… I saw them. Two of them."
"Two of who?"
"People. Figures. Dressed in robes, like… like they were from another time. A man and a woman. The woman…" He hesitated, struggling to articulate the impossible. "She spoke to me. Not with her voice. Inside my head. She called me… Kunala."
Ananya's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't interrupt.
"She said it was time to remember," Kunal continued, the words tumbling out now. "And then… I saw things. Flashes. A palace, a battlefield… me, but not me. And she told me… she told me I had to go with them." He shuddered, remembering the absolute certainty in that mental command. "It was too much. The memories, her voice… I think… I think that's when I passed out."
He fell silent, searching Ananya's face for disbelief, for ridicule. Instead, he saw only deepening concern, mixed with something else… maybe a flicker of fear. She reached out, tentatively touching his hand. It was trembling.
"Okay," she said softly, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hand. "Okay, Kunal. Two figures. Robes. Telepathy. Calling you Kunala." She took a breath. "This is… a lot more than just weird dreams." She squeezed his hand. "I believe you. I mean, I don't understand it, but I believe you. And the fact you fainted… this is real."
A wave of gratitude washed over him, so potent it almost brought tears to his eyes. He wasn't alone in this madness. "I don't know what to do, Annie."
"Well," she said, her practical side surfacing, "we can't just ignore it. They know who you are, or who they think you are. They found you. We need to figure out what's going on." She paused, thinking. "Kunala… Emperor Ashoka's son, right? The one who was blinded?"
Kunal nodded, the name sending another involuntary shiver through him.
"Then that's where we start," Ananya declared, a determined glint in her eyes. "We need to learn everything we can about him. Maybe history holds some answers. Maybe it tells us who they might be, or what they want with 'Kunala'."
The next afternoon, after Kunal had rested and assured Ananya he felt steady enough, they found themselves in the hushed, reverent halls of the Asiatic Society Library. The air hung thick with the scent of aged paper and drying ink, a sanctuary of knowledge tucked away from Mumbai's relentless pace.
Surrounded by towering shelves crammed with ancient manuscripts and weathered scrolls, they began their search. They pored over books on Mauryan India, Ashoka's reign, and Buddhist chronicles. Much of it was familiar territory to Kunal from his own readings, mentioning Kunala only in passing – the prince famed for his eyes, tragically blinded by court intrigue, a footnote in his father's grand history.
But then, tucked away in a less-visited section, Kunal found it. Not a bound book, but a collection of fragile palm-leaf manuscripts, held together by string. The script was archaic, faint. Yet, as his fingers gently brushed against the dried leaf, a jolt, like static electricity, shot up his arm. He could read it. Effortlessly. The characters flowed into his mind, not as words to be deciphered, but as pure meaning.
He carefully lifted one manuscript, his breath catching in his throat. The text spoke of Pataliputra's court, of Ashoka's decrees, of whispered conspiracies in shadowed hallways. And then, it described Kunala's appointment, his journey, his popularity. As Kunal read, the library around him seemed to fade.
The words weren't just text anymore; they bloomed into memory.
Flash.
He stood in a magnificent hall, golden pillars soaring towards a ceiling painted with celestial maps. Below him, warriors clad in polished bronze armor knelt, their voices rising in a solemn oath of fealty. Beside him, a presence – a woman, her face indistinct like a water-roughened reflection, yet radiating a warmth that felt agonizingly familiar.
Flash.
Pain. White-hot, searing pain erupting behind his eyes. Darkness absolute, swallowing the world. Shouts of panic, the clang of dropped metal, the unmistakable, chilling sound of triumphant, treacherous laughter.
Flash.
Exile. A lonely road. The vow whispered into the uncaring wind – a promise of return, of justice.
Kunal staggered back, dropping the manuscript onto the heavy wooden table with a soft thud. He gasped for air, clutching his head as the library swam back into focus. Ananya was instantly beside him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her eyes wide with alarm.
"Kunal! What happened? What did you see?"
He looked at her, his own eyes wild, the phantom agony still echoing behind them. The library's quiet hum seemed impossibly loud.
"I…" he choked out, the words tasting like ash and truth. "I remembered the betrayal. The blinding." He met her gaze, the confirmation settling deep in his bones, heavy as lead.
"Ananya… I was Kunala."
Ananya stared at him, her face pale. The last vestiges of doubt vanished, replaced by a profound understanding of the impossible reality they had stumbled into. The historical figure wasn't just a research topic anymore. He was the man standing before her. And the forces that had destroyed him once were, terrifyingly, no longer confined to the pages of history.