At ten in the morning, Banaras was supposed to glow.
The city, usually drowned in sunlight, lay today beneath a heavy blanket of clouds, as if the sky itself was holding its breath. Banaras was no metropolis, yet it carried a rhythm of its own—too many people, endless horns, and a calm that moved like the Ganga: slow and eternal.
It was called the city of gods. People believed it was guarded by Kala Bhairava, the fierce keeper of time and direction. Pilgrims arrived every day to kneel before his temple.
But among all these believers lived a man who called it nothing more than myth.
Dr. Aman Mehta had devoted his life not to gods, but to medicine. He was one of the most renowned surgeons in the city; a man who trusted his scalpels more than prayers.
Ironically, he came from a long line of priests and sages—a family that measured life in rituals and mantras. Aman was the outlier. He measured life in heartbeats and the steady beep-beep of machines.
They say people change when the time is right.
I don't believe that.
I believe time changes people when it is done waiting. And that morning, time was done waiting for the doctor.
You ask me how I know all this? I was there to witness it. I was there to witness the beginning of an end.
Aman had always been obsessed with the how and the why. Since childhood, he had been fascinated by the clockwork of the universe always needing to know what would happen if he pulled a certain lever or cut a certain string. he wanted to dismantle the human body just to understand the ghost inside the machine.
He wasn't born to these holy ghats; he was raised in frantic, modern chaos of Delhi. A man who loved the cold logic of the capital was now practicing in the mystical heart of Banaras. Wad it fate? Was it calling? No one knew, not even me. But i am certain of one thing: the man who trusted only what he could touch, who measured life in breath and blood, was about to have his reality turned upside down.
The clock was ticking, and for Aman Mehta, the hands were about to move backward
The morning was dull, punctuated only by the rhythmic distant wails of ambulances and the sterile chatter if white coated staff. Within the hospital the walls were as white as as fresh snow, an architectural claim of purity that masked the reality beneath. only those who worked here knew the truth: those walls weren't white to stay clean; they were white to hide the blood that had soaked into the foundation over the years.
In a city like Banaras, true doctors were becoming a scarcity. It wasn't matter of money, but of soul. The pressure was a crushing weight, and few had the spine to carry it. As the only facility in the region with advanced medical equipment the hospital had birthed a dangerous side effect: the doctors here had begun to believe they were gods.
Outside, the sun blazed with a spiteful intensity, as if it took personal pleasure in tormenting the weary. Inside, the lobby was a sea of broken bodies. patients flooded in with shattered wrists, deep lacerations, and, in the darker corners, shattered spirits. They endured the biting arrogant of staff with a quiet, bitter disgust. But as the saying goes, beggars cannot be choosers. in this temple of medicine, the priests were rude and the pilgrims had to be silent. It was common knowledge that a doctor in this building was an arrogant one.
But true intelligence never needs to shout, and that truth lived within Aman Mehta. Aman was respected surgeon, but he was an anomaly among his peers. Most of the senior staff were clean shaven men with soft hands and beer bellies, man who looked gentle but acted with cold indifference. Aman was built differently. He was tall and broad shouldered, his long hair pulled back into a disciplined bun, a thick beard framing a face that looked like it had been carved from granite.
He looked like a man who would scold you just for standing in his way, a fierce exterior that hid a surprisingly gentle soul. The emergency call had pulled him into the hospital's orbit earlier then usual. A complicated case had arrived, and he was the only surgeon qualified to navigate the labyrinth of the patient's failing heart.
As he stepped into the ward, he wasn't greeted with a "Good morning, Sir". He was greeted by the suffocating, chemical embrace of antiseptic and industrial sanitize. The benches were packed. Some patients looked terrified; others sat in a hollow, eyed trance. The staff moved past them as if they were nothing more then lobby furniture, unthinking decorations of misery.
Aman's pace quickened as he headed for the locker rooms, but he stopped short when he saw a nurse berating an elderly man for "wasting her time" with a minor aliment. The faint, polite smile Aman usually wore vanished instantly. His expression hardened into the fierce mask that complimented his rugged look.
"If they cannot come to the hospital when they are afraid, where else are they supposed to go? he thought, his blood began to simmer. He moved to intervene, but a firm, familiar hand landed on his shoulder.
"Where are you storming off to Tiger? We have a surgery to win" a voice teased. Aman turned to find Sophie. She was his anchor, his partner in crime, and the only person capable of diffusing his temper before it reached it a boiling point. She always carried a look of mischievous calm, as if she were perpetually enjoying a joke the rest of the world hadn't heard. Her blue eyes, deep and vast like a hidden ocean, were the only place where Aman truly found his own stillness,
"Let's go before the patient makes the decision for us", she urged, her voice a mix of humor and urgency." I need to speak to that nurse first", Aman countered glancing back. " That's no way to speak to someone in pain". But by the time he turned his head, the hallway had swallowed them up. They were gone. With a frustrated sigh, he followed Sophie toward the changing rooms. He didn't knew it yet, but this small spark of irritation was the first ember of a wildfire that was about to consume his entire life