The run had no end.
Feet bleeding. Lungs tearing.
But he didn’t stop. Not until he collapsed at the steps of an old shrine — forgotten by time, untouched by prayers for centuries.
Three doors stood before him.
No handles. No locks.
Only symbols carved into wood:
🌑 A child curled in sleep.
🔥 A man burning in silence.
🌕 A figure without a face, stepping into light.
He didn’t choose.
They opened together.
And time spilled out.
PAST — Bhootkaal
He saw himself — a boy in school uniform, staring out a classroom window, hearing chants no one else could hear.
His teacher slapped him for writing ॐ कालाय नमः instead of his name on the exam.
That was the day he buried his voice.
He blinked.
Now a young man in a college hostel, sitting under a flickering bulb, reading Tantra Rahasya hidden inside an economics textbook. His roommate laughed.
He laughed too.
But his hands trembled.
He blinked.
Now he stood beside his grandfather’s body, cold but untouched by flame. The priest said,
“Before he died, he whispered your name.”
He had never asked what.
PRESENT — Vartamaan
He was still at the temple. Or maybe not. Time folded inward like wet cloth.
He watched himself sitting in the fire pit again.
Then standing in the forest.
Then bowing to the Rakshak.
Then running.
All at once.
All now.
FUTURE — Bhavishya
A vision opened like thunder behind clouds.
He stood alone in a cave, hair long, eyes glowing.
Not mad. Not holy.
Just… empty.
Still.
Someone crawled to him — injured, afraid.
He whispered something in their ear.
The person stood, healed.
Not by magic.
Because truth, finally, had a voice.
And it was his.
Back in the temple, the three doors closed.
And on his chest, where once burned a flame, now rested a symbol—
🕉️ inside a triangle, wrapped by a snake, resting on a skull.
He had crossed the Trikala.
And heard, at last, his grandfather’s voice:
“Now you’re ready, beta. Now… go to the Kapali.”