Delhi, India – 2025
Rudra stepped out of the auto-rickshaw and got smacked in the face by the smell—diesel, sweat, and something rotten. The air was thick, like breathing through a dirty sock. Above him, skyscrapers towered, their fancy holographic ads flickering in the smog, selling crap nobody needed. Below, the streets were a mess of rickshaws, bikes, and people shoving each other just to get by. It was 2025, and India felt like a broken promise—high-tech gadgets buzzing around, but the city was falling apart at the seams.
Rudra wiped his glasses on his shirt, but the grime wouldn't budge. He'd spent years sketching blueprints for a better Delhi—cleaner, smarter, less of a disaster—but no one gave a damn. His ideas were rotting in a drawer, just like the city. He glanced at the crumpled letter in his hand. The address matched this rundown building—an old, forgotten place that looked like it hadn't seen a mop in decades. The letter was weird, unsigned, with a single line: "Your visions deserve a second chance." Rudra wasn't the type to chase mysteries—he liked facts, plans, straight lines—but something about it dragged him here. Maybe it was desperation.
Inside, the building smelled like mildew and broken dreams. His sneakers squeaked on the dusty floor, echoing in the empty hall. When he pushed open the door to the meeting room, four strangers turned to look at him, each one looking as confused and pissed off as he felt.
Vikram was pacing near the back, muttering numbers under his breath like he was trying to solve the world's problems in his head. Dude looked like a scientist—skinny, glasses, the kind of guy who'd rather talk to machines than people. Arjun leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his farmer's tan and rough hands screaming "I've seen some shit." Priya sat at a dusty table, tapping her foot like she was late for something important. She had the tired eyes of a teacher who'd been let down one too many times. Sanjay stood by the window, staring at the streets like he could punch the corruption out of them. His suit was rumpled, like he'd slept in it.
Rudra cleared his throat, feeling awkward as hell. "Uh… you all got letters too, right?"
They nodded, pulling out their own notes. Priya held hers up first, her voice shaky. "Mine says, 'Your voice will echo beyond this time.' I thought it was a scam, but…" She trailed off, biting her lip.
Sanjay snorted, waving his letter like it owed him money. "Mine's about cutting through the rot and being a real leader. Whoever wrote this knows I'm done losing fights I can't win." He sounded tough, but his eyes were tired.
Arjun smirked, though it didn't reach his face. "Mine's got some bullshit about feeding a nation reborn. Sounds like a bad ad, but it got me here."
Vikram stopped pacing long enough to glare at his note. "Solutions to the energy crisis," he said, voice tight. "I've been begging for funding for years. Who the hell is this?"
Rudra opened his mouth to say he had no clue, but then he saw something weird. A carving on the wall—a mandala or some symbol—started to glow faintly, like it was alive. "Hey, do you see—"
The room shook before he could finish. The floor trembled, lights flickered, and a voice—deep, like it came from everywhere—boomed through the air. "You have been chosen to shape India's future. Beware the path ahead."
"What the—" Sanjay started, but the floor dropped out from under them. Rudra's stomach flipped as they fell, spinning through darkness, their shouts swallowed by the void.
When Rudra blinked awake, the smog was gone. The air was crisp, smelling like spices and fresh dirt. He staggered to his feet, glasses crooked, and stared. A market buzzed around them—vendors yelling about vegetables, bikes clattering over cobblestones, women in bright saris that screamed 1960s. His brain scrambled to catch up. "This… this isn't right."
Priya clutched her bag, eyes wide. "That man—the one with the cart. He's my grandfather. But he's young." Her voice cracked, like she was about to lose it.
Sanjay spun toward her, pale. "Your grandfather? Mine's dead, but that guy looks just like him too. What the hell is going on?"
Vikram adjusted his glasses, muttering, "Time travel's impossible. Quantum mechanics doesn't work like this. Does it?" He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
Arjun kicked a pebble, jaw tight. "If this is a prank, it's a damn good one. Smells too real."
Before Rudra could even think of a response, a figure stepped out of the crowd. A young guy, maybe twenty, with sharp eyes and a grin that said he knew too much. He locked eyes with Rudra, and something familiar—too familiar—prickled down his spine.
"Welcome to 1965," the stranger said, his tone light but with a bite. "We've been expecting you."
Rudra's breath caught. "Who are you? How do you—"
The guy's smile widened, but he didn't answer. Around them, the market kept moving, oblivious to the five strangers standing there, lost in time. Priya whispered something, Sanjay clenched his fists, Vikram's numbers trailed off, and Arjun's skepticism flickered. Rudra felt their confusion like a rope tying them together—a rope that promised answers, danger, and a journey none of them could've seen coming.