Marina Beach, Chennai. 11:47 PM. October 25, 2025.
The Bay of Bengal roared like a Marshall stack on 11.
Black waves slammed the shore.
Promenade lights stuttered.
Even the Kannagi statue seemed to flinch.
And in the middle of it, he played.
A lone man on a broken bench, under a torn beach umbrella.
A 7-string electric guitar matte black, carbon-fiber, Shiva lingam inlaid in mother-of-pearl on the 12th fret rested on his thigh.
No amp.
Just a battery-powered pedalboard glowing red in the rain.
"Dang-dang-dang… dheem-dheem-dheem…"
The notes sliced the storm like a distortion pedal through silence.
The riff was ancient.
Not Yngwie. Not Satriani.
It was Kamba Ramayanam, Yuddha Kandam, Padalam 42 the exact phrase Ravana composed in Ashoka Vatika while Sita wept under the Simshapa tree.
No one on Marina Beach knew that.
Except one woman.
Sita Lakshmi stood 50 feet away, soaked, clutching a dead voice recorder.
She was here for a story: "Tech Billionaire Shreds at Midnight PR Stunt?"
Her editor had laughed.
She hadn't.
Because the moment the first chord hit,
her soul short-circuited.
She remembered everything.
The golden deer.
The line in the sand.
The Pushpaka Vimana.
The Ashoka grove.
The fire.
The exile.
And him.
The man with 10 heads who never touched her.
Who begged.
Who burned.
Now, he sat in a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled, hair plastered to his forehead.
No crown.
No 10 heads.
Just one face sharp, tired, beautiful.
A face she had seen die.
Sita (whisper, rain swallowing her voice):
"Ravan…"
He didn't hear.
He was lost in the riff.
His eyes were closed.
Tears mixed with rain.
FLASHBACK: 12th Century, Kamba's Imagination (Reimagined)
"அசோக மர நிழலில் அவள் அழுதாள்…
அவன் கித்தாரில் அழுகை பாடினான்…"
("She wept under the Ashoka tree…
He wailed her tears on the guitar…")
Kamba never wrote guitar.
But 2025 Kamba would.
BACK TO 2025
Sita stepped forward.
Her sandals squelched.
Her mangalsutra slapped against her collarbone like a whammy bar dive.
She stopped 10 feet away.
Close enough to see the calluses on his fingertips.
Close enough to smell sandalwood, coffee, and ozone from the pedal.
He opened his eyes.
Brown. Deep. Ancient.
Ravi (soft, almost shy):
"You're getting wet."
His voice was baritone Tamil, the kind that made old women in Madurai buses cry during Bharathiyar recitals.
Sita (hoarse):
"You're playing… that riff."
He frowned.
Ravi:
"You know it?"
She laughed a sound like feedback through a broken speaker.
Sita:
"I lived it."
He tilted his head.
The guitar hummed, unsettled natural harmonic squeal.
Ravi:
"I don't know you. But… this riff. It's been in my head since I was 7. My ajji said it's a lullaby from Lanka, but on guitar. I thought she was high."
He stood.
6'2".
Lean.
A silver Shiva lingam pendant glinted at his throat.
Ravi:
"I'm Ravan Shanmugam. People call me Ravi. I build… machines that think."
He extended a hand.
Sita stared at it.
The same hand that once lifted her into the sky.
The same hand that never crossed the line.
She didn't take it.
Sita:
"I know who you are."
Lightning flashed.
For a second, his shadow on the sand had 10 heads.
CUT TO: NEWSROOM MONTAGE (6 HOURS EARLIER)
The Dravidian Post, Nungambakkam.
Sita's editor, Karthik, slams a file.
Karthik:
"Ravan Shanmugam. LANKAI Technologies. Net worth 12,000 crore. Shreds 7-string at midnight. Probably on molly. Get me a story."
Sita's Laptop Screen:
"LANKAI's 'Brahmastra' AI drone swarm threat or miracle?"
"CEO Ravi: 'I don't sleep. I riff.'"
"Colombo roots. Jaffna Tamil mother. Sinhala father. Missing for 20 years."
YouTube clip: Ravi playing the riff at a TEDx 12M views.
Sita's Notebook (handwritten):
"Why does his riff make me want to scream?"
BACK TO BEACH
Ravi packed the guitar into a Pelican hard case.
Ravi:
"You're a journalist."
Not a question.
Sita:
"Investigative."
Ravi (smiling, sad):
"Then you'll write that I'm crazy. Or a PR stunt. Both true."
He turned to leave.
Sita (suddenly):
"Wait."
He stopped.
Sita:
"Play it again. The part where… she refuses."
His fingers froze on the case latch.
Ravi:
"You do know the riff."
He sat.
Plugged in.
Hit the overdrive pedal.
"Dang-dang… dheem…"
The exact 16-note phrase Kamba wrote for Sita's defiance now in drop-D tuning, palm-muted.
Sita closed her eyes.
Tears came.
Not from rain.
SUDDENLY PHONE BUZZ
Ravi's screen lit up.
Unknown Number.
He answered in Sinhala.
Voice (distorted):
"Ravi. They're coming. Delhi. Tonight."
Click.
Ravi's face hardened.
The poet vanished.
The king returned.
Ravi (to Sita, urgent):
"You should go."
Sita:
"Who's coming?"
Ravi:
"People who don't like noise."
He slung the guitar case over his shoulder.
Started walking toward the parking lot.
Sita followed.
Her recorder was dead, but her memory was alive.
PARKING LOT BLACK SCORPIO
Ravi opened the boot.
Inside: laptop, drone controller, a small Shiva idol.
And a passport.
Name: Ravan Shanmugam.
Photo: Same face. But eyes… haunted.
Sita:
"You're running."
Ravi:
"I'm surviving."
He looked at her — really looked.
Ravi:
"You have her eyes."
Sita's breath caught.
Ravi (confused):
"I don't know why I said that."
Headlights.
Three white Innovas screeched in.
Men in safari suits.
Income Tax. ED. CBI.
Badges flashed.
Lead Officer (shouting):
"Ravan Shanmugam! You're under arrest!"
Ravi didn't flinch.
He whispered to Sita:
Ravi:
"Tell them I was never here."
He slipped into the shadows.
Gone.
SITA ALONE
The officers swarmed.
One grabbed her arm.
Officer:
"Ma'am, did you see Ravan Shanmugam?"
Sita looked at the empty space where he'd stood.
Then at the guitar case he'd left behind.
Sita (calm):
"No. But I heard him."
She picked up the case.
Walked into the rain.
The rain stops.
The puddle shows her face and for a second, behind her, a golden deer flickers.