The flying chariot hummed low and steady under Anand, slicing through the clouds. Pitamaha had just flicked his wrist and there it was some ancient spell woven into the wood and silk cushions. "Take it," the old man had grumbled, half-smiling. "And don't you dare crash the damn thing. Your mother would skin me alive and feed me to the crows."

  Anand sat cross-legged on the thick padded platform, elbows on his knees, letting the wind tug at his hair while the world below slowly peeled open.

  First it was just clouds endless, fluffy, boring white nothing.

  Then they split apart.

  And his stomach did this little flip.

  Rajahamsapuri rolled out beneath him. Temple spires everywhere, their terracotta tiles catching the afternoon sun and turning this deep, warm red-gold. Narrow canals glittered between the buildings like silver threads, tiny boats bobbing along with people rowing, laughing, arguing over fares.

  *Bengal,* he thought, the word landing soft and certain in his head. *Everything about it the curves, the colors, culture,goddess , ma kaali, Whole place screams Bengal.*

  The temples had these graceful, sweeping roofs that curled up at the edges like wings mid-flap. Every wall was crawling with carvings , Shakti with ten arms dancing, gods riding swans (rajahamsa, he got the name now), apsaras frozen forever in mid-twirl, their stone scarves rippling like real silk.

  He spotted Durga's temple first fierce, red, weapons raised. Then Kali's, darker. Saraswati's was all white marble and quiet grace, a huge lotus pond in front where pink flowers floated.

  *Classic Hindu,* he thought. *Fits the clan's whole Trimurti thing.*

  But then the chariot drifted lower and he saw them.

  Monks. Shaved heads shining in the sun, saffron robes. Walking single file through the crowded street. People just… made space. A woman dropped a handful of rice without breaking stride.

  Anand blinked. Leaned forward so far the cushion creaked.

  *Buddhists? Here?*

  He'd spent years assuming this whole world was straight-up Hindu Devas, cosmic order, the clan's sacred hierarchy. But these guys moved like they belonged. No stares, no whispers, no tension. Just part of the rhythm.

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  He let the thought settle, rolling it around like a smooth stone in his palm.

  *Not Hindu-based. Dharmic-based.* The bigger umbrella. Karma, rebirth, the long climb toward freedom. Buddhism, Jainism, all the rest they were just different paths up the same damn mountain.

  A small grin tugged at his mouth. *Huh. Makes sense.*

  Lower still, and the details sharpened.

  He saw the Jain monasteries plain, almost shy next to the loud temples. White-robed figures gliding between them, slow and deliberate, like they were walking through honey. Down by the riverbank, a cluster of Naga sadhus sat in the dust. Ash-smeared bodies, matted hair piled high, tridents stuck in the ground like flags.

  *Exactly like the ones at the Kashi ghats in my old life,* Anand thought, and a weird little ache bloomed behind his ribs. Some things really do cross worlds.

  The chariot kept sinking. Now he could smell everything fish frying in mustard oil, jasmine garlands wilting in the heat, the earthy damp of canal water, someone burning dried dung for cooking. Thousands of normal people moved below like ants in a hive. No prana, no cultivation glow. Vegetable sellers shouting prices, women slapping wet saris against stones, kids chasing a hoop through the dust. A little girl tugged her mother's pallu while the woman balanced a massive basket of silver fish on her head, scolding gently in Bengali.

  None of them looked up. None of them noticed that a Deva Putra was floating overhead because of safety mantra in the chariot.

  *God, I love that,* Anand thought, shoulders loosening for the first time in weeks. Up in Brahmapuri it was bows and whispers and "Deva putra" every five seconds.

  The chariot followed the widest canal toward the center. Buildings grew grander mansions with glowing protection arrays, rooftops where young cultivators sparred so fast normal eyes couldn't track them. He caught a glimpse of a training yard: a fourteen-year-old girl threw a punch that cracked like thunder and left a perfect circle of cleared dust around her. Elders nodded, correcting stances with sharp words.

  They were Vassal clans under chandravanshi.

  Then the descent steepened.

  The Vishwa Kala Sadan was impossible to miss. It took up an entire bend in the river, walled but open-hearted, gates carved from single slabs of black stone dancers mid-leap, musicians with fingers on strings, painters bent over scrolls. Beyond the walls he saw gardens bursting with color, open pavilions where bodies moved in fluid dance, the faint shimmer of silk. Music drifted up: the low thrum of a sitar, the heartbeat of tabla, a woman's voice rising.

  The chariot settled with a soft sigh right in front of the main gate.

  Anand stepped down onto warm stone, sandals scraping lightly. The vehicle hummed once, flickered, then vanished whisked back to the Brahmapuri by whatever clever mantra his grandfather had tied into the spell.

  He stood there alone for a second, heart doing a slow, excited thump, staring up at the carved gates.

  *Vishwa Kala Sadan,* he thought, breathing in the scent of sandalwood and fresh flowers and possibility.

  *Alright. Let's see what kind of trouble I can get into here. I am so ready for some faceslapping scene*