Anagha, Chitrakala, and Agasthya had long perfected the art of conference calls. These weren't the serious, professional kind—oh no, not with this trio. These were the type of calls where school prep plans somehow got mixed up with gossip about college life and quizzes that definitely had no place in serious academia. The screen flickered for a moment before stabilizing into a grainy trio of sleepy faces.
Anagha was curled up under her blanket, her phone wedged precariously between her cheek and pillow, half her face smushed, but her eyes wide open. Chitrakala sat cross-legged on her bed, braiding her hair with sleepy grace, while Agasthya leaned back against his headboard, absentmindedly flipping a pen like he was hosting a late-night TED talk on "How to Survive College Without Actually Packing."
"Has anyone checked the quiz results?" Anagha whispered.
"They're probably still evaluating," Chitra said, tugging her braid tighter. "It was weird, okay? I'm telling you, it didn't feel like a normal BuzzFeed quiz."
"Yeah," Agasthya yawned. "I mean, 'Which celestial alignment best matches your aura?' Who writes that?"
"Maybe astrology nerds with Wi-Fi access and a lot of… imagination?" Anagha offered. "Honestly, I was expecting a house assignment or personality type. Not, 'How many drops of rain and whatnot…' That's not even a result. It's not even multiple choice. Some questions even ask you to explain why. What's the purpose? It's rubbish is what it is!"
Chitra snorted. "We probably got trolled. Some intern on their last day at BuzzFeed probably cooked that one up for revenge."
"Agasthya," Anagha whispered conspiratorially, "did you really answer 'yes' and explain your reasoning for the question about whether you've seen the alignment of favorable planets with your third eye?"
He blinked innocently. "I thought it was metaphorical."
They laughed softly, trying not to wake anyone at home. The call dimmed into sleepy quiet. Their banter faded, like the slow hum of a lullaby.
"Goodnight, lovebirds," Anagha whispered and cut the call, knowing that Chitra and Agasthya would have a little love-talk before sleeping.
And then, something flickered.
Just for a second, the outline of their figures—Agasthya's sharp jawline, Chitra's gentle features, and Anagha's wide, curious eyes—glowed faintly. A barely-there shimmer, like moonlight trying to sneak through.
But they were already asleep.
Elsewhere…
In a snowy corner of Siberia, inside a monastery older than the Cyrillic alphabet, a boy no older than thirteen sat on a stone floor, reciting obscure chants while balancing an egg on his head. Around him, weathered elders watched like proud eagles.
"His great-grandfather was chosen once," one of them muttered, stroking a beard so long it doubled as a scarf. "Before the quiz even went digital."
In a sleek skyscraper in Seoul, a girl in her twenties stood in a full-body scanner, surrounded by blinking monitors tracking everything from her chakra alignment to her sleep cycles.
"She has meditated every day since she was five," her grandmother said proudly, adjusting her hanbok. "When she was six, she levitated during naptime."
The technicians clapped politely.
In a remote Japanese dojo, an elderly sensei hit a gong and barked, "Again!" as his student—a man in his sixties—fell flat on his face.
"I'll pass it this time, Sensei," the man gasped.
"You said that at 42."
"This time, I've reached optimal spiritual viscosity."
The sensei narrowed his eyes. "You mean velocity?"
"No. Viscosity."
The elderly sensei sighed. "Not this year, too, I guess."
In a rainforest outpost once part of the Mayan empire, a teenage girl adjusted her ceremonial feathers and recited a lineage so long it required breath support. Her grandmother, all wrinkles and majesty, watched.
"Our bloodline survived three cataclysms," she declared, "and still scored 98% on that quiz last year."
The girl swallowed hard. "But not selected."
Her grandmother's eyes twinkled. "That's why we fast-tracked your stargazing lessons."
On a frozen shore among the Inuk, a wide-eyed boy huddled beside his great-grandmother. She handed him a fur-lined tablet, displaying a pixelated quiz interface.
"Press start," she said, eyes gleaming.
"But… I can't read it. It's in Sanskrit."
She cackled. "Then it has already begun."
It was whispered in corners of palaces, meditated upon in forgotten forests, buried in family scrolls older than time.
The test came every year. Nobody knew exactly what it led to—but those who passed vanished. Not like into thin air. No, they returned. When they returned, they came with power, with knowledge, and the world would revolve around them.
And in every ancient, continuous lineage that knew this—whether through tales of a shipwrecked ancestor who was rescued by an "Indian sage who glowed," or a dusty manuscript smuggled out of a temple—there was the same hope: that this year, it would be their kin.
And so, they trained. From five, from twelve, from fifty. They trained like their soul depended on it.
Because maybe, just maybe, it did.
The next morning, Anagha woke up unusually early—mostly because her mother had burned incense sticks with all the subtlety of a forest fire. Groaning, she freshened up, tossed her notebook into her satchel, and walked over to Chitra's house to wait for her. Together with Agasthya, they headed to college. That day's class was under a very respected visiting professor who was known for publishing articles with footnotes longer than the actual content. The three sat in hushed reverence, pretending to take notes while mostly doodling constellations in the margins.
Just as the professor began a story about ancient texts discovered in a submerged temple, a strange hum rippled through the room—like a bee trapped in a conch shell. Anagha's ears twitched.
After class, she cornered the other two near the department staircase. "Did you hear that humming?" she asked. They both nodded, eyes wide. As they stepped out into the sun, Anagha and Chitra rifled through their bags for their bus passes.
Just as Anagha zipped up her purse and Chitra was still digging through hers for the elusive bus pass, Agasthya suddenly froze.
Then, dramatically—almost too dramatically—he burst into tears.
"I… I CAN'T MARRY CHITRA ANYMORE!"
Both girls blinked.
"What?" Anagha asked, stunned.
"I'M HALLUCINATING!" he wailed. "I NEED A DOCTOR—IMMEDIATELY! I JUST SAW A MAN WITH TWO HEADS AND A CROWN! AND HE SMILED AT ME!"
Chitra's fingers went limp inside her purse. Anagha's zipper got stuck halfway.
They turned slowly.
There was nothing.
And then… there was something.
A strange shimmer. Like heatwaves in the shade.
Their eyes widened in unison.
Anagha didn't wait for consensus. She grabbed Chitra's wrist in one hand, Agasthya's in the other, and sprinted like her life—and maybe her afterlife—depended on it.
"ANAGHA! WHERE ARE WE GOING?!" Agasthya cried, stumbling behind her.
"WHERE DO YOU THINK?! TEMPLE, OF COURSE!"
"WAIT—YOU SAW IT TOO?!"
"YES, IDIOT!"
"STOP YELLING IN MY EAR!"
"THEN START READING HANUMAN CHALISA!"
"I—I FORGOT IT!"
"YOU WHAT?!"
"I'M PANICKING, OKAY?! I JUST SAW A CROWNED DOUBLE-HEADED DEMON, I'M ALLOWED TO FORGET!"
"NO, YOU MOST CERTAINLY ARE NOT! DO YOU SEE IT COMING FOR US?!" Chitra yelled.
"I'M NOT GOING TO LOOK BACK! AGASTYA YOU?" Anagha yelled back.
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?! IF YOU HAVE GUTS, YOU LOOK BACK!" Agasthya hollered.
"I'D RATHER NOT LOOK BACK AND DIE IN IGNORANCE THAN KNOW EXACTLY WHAT'S CHASING ME!" Anagha hollered back.
"BOTH OF YOU, SHUT UP!" Chitra yelled, breathless but firm. "LET ME CHANT!"
"DO IT LOUDER!"
"I AM DOING IT LOUDER!"
And so the three of them tore through the streets, one praying, one shouting, one vaguely sobbing.
Behind them, the air warped like a bad mirage. A dog howled. A squirrel dropped its guava and ran.
And somewhere far, far above, the gods leaned in a little closer.