There are stories known only to the wind—whispers traded between rustling trees, waves crashing on ancient shores, and starlight reflecting off worlds unseen. Some stories never made it to paper. They are too old, too sacred, or simply too well-guarded.
But sometimes, when fate grows bored and algorithms glitch, a few mortals stumble into stories they were never meant to read.
Cut to: Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh. Present day. A terrace filled with filtered sunlight, tangled notebooks, and exactly zero awareness of what was about to unfold.
Anagha Devi squinted at her phone screen, trying to decipher a half-blurry PDF titled "Literary Symbolism in Pre-Mauryan Inscriptions." Her chai had gone cold. Again.
Across from her, Chitrakala was highlighting something in angry neon green. She claimed it helped her remember better. In truth, it just made everything look like it had been attacked by a highlighter-wielding peacock.
Meanwhile, Agasthya had successfully converted his side of the table into a war zone of paper scraps, empty snack wrappers, and a crumpled list titled "Possible Thesis Topics That Won't Kill Me."
"Honestly," Anagha said, flopping backwards, "do we even need a PhD? Can't we just… become wise through osmosis?"
Agasthya raised an eyebrow. "That's not how research works."
Chitra, without looking up, added, "Says the guy who once cited Wikipedia on a midterm."
"Okay, that was one time and it was a good citation."
Anagha snorted. "I still remember. 'According to a user named VishnuFan98…'"
Their laughter floated upward like the steam from the fresh batch of Sugandha sharbat Anagha's grandfather had just brought in. He always made sure they had something to drink during study sessions—one of his love languages, along with cryptic temple stories and unsolicited advice about turmeric.
Agasthya took a long sip of his RoohAfza with milk. "Mmm. The nectar of chaotic men."
Chitra made a face. "Why are you like this? It tastes like melted pink soap."
Anagha grabbed her glass protectively. "This sharbat is superior. It tastes like my childhood and possibly enlightenment."
"Oh, here we go," Agasthya muttered. "Drink poetry incoming."
Chitra leaned back with a grin. "You should write odes to snacks, Anagha. It's your true calling."
"Too late," she said with mock solemnity. "My destiny is already tied to ancient texts, dead languages, and staring at palm leaves until my eyes fall out."
Just then, Agasthya's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and groaned.
"What now?" Chitra asked.
"My family group. All the retired uncles are comparing their spirit animals. Someone discovered BuzzFeed quizzes and now it's a full-blown jungle in there."
"Tell me someone is a flamingo," Anagha said, grabbing his phone.
She scrolled. The messages were pure chaos.
Uncle Vinay: "I'm a wolf!! Strength and loyalty 😎🐺"
Uncle Ramesh: "Pfft, I got eagle. Vision and dominance. Clearly superior."
Uncle Gopi: "I'm a squirrel. Wut does that mean."
Agasthya's Dad: "My internet broke. Am I a lizard?"
Anagha giggled. "This is too good. We have to take one now."
"Peer pressure is real," Agasthya sighed, but he and Chitra were already leaning over her shoulder.
Anagha tapped away, hunting for the quiz. She clicked one without reading too much into it. It had no flashy title, no banner ads. Just a plain white screen and a sentence that read:
"Only the Truly Chosen May Enter."
"Dramatic much?" Chitra muttered.
But Anagha was intrigued. Her thumb hovered over the 'Start' button.
"C'mon," she said. "Let's see what we get."
The quiz started.
The first question:
"If you had to choose between battling a 10-foot-tall bear or the world's largest snail, which would you pick?"
"Clearly the snail," Anagha said, leaning back. "Slower than my grandmother's temper."
"Yeah, right," Agasthya scoffed. "I'm not trying to be mauled. I'd go for the bear."
"But you're not thinking about the real danger," Chitra chimed in. "The snail could leave a slime trail that would literally never wash off. It's a war of attrition."
The next question popped up, equally absurd:
"How many drops of rain fall on your head when you run through a monsoon for five minutes?"
Chitra squinted. "What kind of question is that? What is this quiz even measuring?"
"I'm sure there's a scientific paper on it somewhere," Anagha joked. "I'll go with 8,000. Seems like a reasonable guess."
"No, no," Agasthya said with mock seriousness. "It's 8,001 drops. One for every bad decision I've made."
Anagha giggled, picking her answer. Chitra did too, clearly just guessing now.
"Next!" Anagha pressed.
The third question appeared:
"If your spirit animal could speak, would it say: 'I demand snacks' or 'I must protect the sacred scrolls of knowledge'?"
"This one's easy," Agasthya said. "I'm all about snacks. I know my spirit animal."
Anagha grinned. "I'd choose the scrolls, obviously. Knowledge over food—unless it's food for the soul, like Sarvapindi."
"We're going to fail this quiz," Chitra muttered, choosing her answer with a dramatic eye roll.
By the time the quiz finished, they were all in fits of laughter.
"Well, that was ridiculous," Anagha said, wiping her eyes. "What's your result?"
"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," Chitra teased.
"Hold on…" Anagha clicked the 'Show Result' button. It loaded for a long time. An awkward silence passed as they stared at the spinning circle.
Finally, it displayed a message:
"Generating..."
"What the hell?!" Agasthya exclaimed. "Is it broken?"
"It's like one of those online test results where they make you wait to make you think it's important," Anagha said. "It's trolling us."
"Well, whatever this is, I'm done. Let's go eat," Chitra said, standing up. "My stomach's singing a song for mango pickle."
They headed downstairs, the night air thick with the scent of freshly made food.
The table was already set with steaming plates of ghee-drizzled potato fry and tangy rasam. Anagha's grandmother smiled at them as she ladled the hot curry into their bowls, her hands steady despite her age. And in the center of the table, a small bowl of homemade mango pickle sat—its spicy, salty fragrance tantalizing.
"I made it fresh today," Grandma said with a twinkle in her eye. "Just for you three."
The terrace was calm under the moon, the light casting soft shadows over their faces as they ate together. Anagha's grandmother served them more of the pickle, her hands careful and sure as she offered them seconds.
"Eat well," Grandma said, her voice gentle but full of wisdom. "For tomorrow, the winds of fate will blow, and you may find yourselves on a path you did not choose."
Anagha glanced up at the sky, wondering just how much of her grandmother's words were meant to be a metaphor and how much was, in fact, a warning.