Rohit looked around and noticed more Indian deities, as there were idols of Goddess Saraswati and Lord Ganesha, each with similar versions of the deities of his own land, as written on the nameplates.
Rohit wasn't a believer. Not in Buddhism, not in Hinduism—not in anything. Faith had long abandoned him, or perhaps he had abandoned it. Yet the resemblance unsettled him. It felt as though some hidden thread connected these distant cultures.
He lingered, his eyes tracing every detail of the dancing Shiva. A strange reverie washed over him. His anger, his doubts, even the noise of the world—faded. In its place was a calming stillness, born from the sculptor's artistry.
And then, unbidden, a thought whispered in his mind:
"Why was I chosen to regress? I wasn't anyone remarkable in my past life. Nor do I see greatness in my future. Could it really be… that some divine being pitied my soul? My purpose…"
The question sent a shiver through him. But Rohit quickly pushed it away. His philosophy was simple: the unknown is best left unknown. Better to leave the void empty than to fill it with half-truths.
For now, he let himself simply… admire. Whether Shiva was truly divine or not no longer mattered. The sheer artistic brilliance that somehow still remained preserved after two thousand years was enough. Whoever had carved this idol deserved immortality, yet here was their work—buried beneath centuries, nearly forgotten. What a pity.
His musings were interrupted by a voice, polite yet firm, spoken in accented English. "You seem rather fascinated by this idol, young man."
Rohit turned. Standing beside him was Masato Fujimura. His sharp gaze carried curiosity, and behind him, others had turned as well, noticing the exchange. Rohit realized, uneasily, that he had become the center of attention.
Scratching his head, he replied, "Ah, yes… I was just admiring the idol of Lord Shiva. What caught me off guard is how much it resembles the Japanese god Daikokuten, revered for peace and happiness. Look at the serenity in that smile—it's uncanny."
Masato's brow rose. He had approached because Rohit was the only one ignoring him in favor of an idol. Now, hearing his words, he felt a flicker of surprise. 'How does this boy know of Japanese deities?'
"You seem to know quite a bit about Japanese gods," he remarked.
Rohit quickly shook his head, raising a hand apologetically before tilting it to reveal the bandage across his forehead. "Ah! Please don't misunderstand. I lost my memory in an accident not long ago. While recovering in hospital, I came across a magazine that spoke of how some Indian gods found counterparts in Japanese Buddhism. That's how I know."
Masato's sternness softened into a smile. "Even so, it's an intriguing observation. Tell me—what else do you recall?"
Encouraged, Rohit pointed at the next idol. "This is Ganesha, son of Shiva. Worshipped as the remover of obstacles, bringer of good fortune. In Japan, he's known as Kangiten—different name, same essence."
Masato's agreed, his tone encouraging. "Yes, yes… fascinating indeed."
Rohit continued, gesturing toward Saraswati. "And here, our goddess of wisdom and learning. In Japan, she is Benzaiten, goddess of music, water, and knowledge. See the instrument? The resemblance is hard to miss."
Masato leaned closer, his interest growing. "You notice what most overlook. Sharp eyes."
Rohit smiled modestly and shook his head.
"Sadly, that's all I remember. The magazine listed more, but… these are the few I can recall."
Masato studied him more closely now. Not in awe but in evaluation.
"And what do you make of such parallels?" he asked.
Rohit paused thoughtfully before replying.
"Perhaps cultures travel more quietly than armies," he said. "Trade, monks, stories… They leave marks. Not identical, but recognizable."
Masato studied him again. What struck him most wasn't just the knowledge, but the way he carried himself. There was someone certain who used to speak like him in group settings by half tilting his head. He sighed. 'What am I even thinking? He is dead now. This must be coincidence. Yes, it must be it.'
Placing a hand on Rohit's shoulder, he asked warmly, "Tell me, then—what do you think of Japan's role in the world, especially in relation to India?"
Rohit hesitated, then spoke with careful sincerity. "Japan is called the land of the rising sun for a reason. The first Asian nation to modernize, the only one to forge an unmatched legacy of swordsmanship, and even after the devastation of war, it rose to stand at the forefront of science and technology. That's… remarkable."
Despite feeling pride Masato's couldn;t ignore the uncanny feeling as he studied the boy. 'Why does he feel so familiar?'
Oblivious to his thoughts, Rohit went on, his tone steady. "I may not know much, but I do believe this—India and Japan have much to offer each other. Especially when facing common rivals."
He did not name rivals.
He did not need to.
Masato's eyebrows shot up. The crowd murmured. The boy had struck directly at the geopolitical tension hanging beneath polite diplomacy. 'Sharp. Too sharp for mere coincidence. I need to keep him closer.'
"Good. Honest. Upright," Masato said slowly, measuring every word. "Young man, I am very curious about who you are."
Rohit bowed slightly, adopting an apologetic tone. "Forgive my manners. I am Rohit Singhania, son of Raj Singhania. My family runs a small business here in the capital." He deliberately tied his name to the branch family, downplaying his connection to the more powerful relatives.
Masato studied him, then turned to the crowd with a smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for this young man. His words tonight were a valuable contribution—not just to this gathering, but to the spirit of trust between our two nations. He has reminded us why Japan should continue to place confidence in India, and why we must strengthen our trade partnership."
The hall erupted. Faces turned toward Rohit—some impressed, others green with envy. A few simply baffled at how he had caught such notice.
Masato reached into his pocket and handed over his business card.
"This is my card. If ever you need assistance, do not hesitate to call."
Rohit glanced down. The card bore the title Managing Director, Takamura Heavy Industries. His lips curved into a restrained but satisfied smile. At least, somehow he had become useful. Despite the nagging feeling of cautiousness toward Masato, everything went quite well.
He lifted his gaze. His driver, his secretary, onlookers—their reactions were priceless. Awe. Jealousy. And then Jayesh, whose smirk was gone, replaced by a hard, unreadable stare.
Rohit bowed.
"The honor is mine, Mr. Fujimura."
Before more could be said, music drifted through the hall—a piano, its notes flowing like silver. Heads turned toward the stage, where a girl sat at the instrument, fingers dancing across the keys.
Rohit's steps carried him closer almost unconsciously. But as he finally saw her face, he froze.
It was her. The same girl from earlier. Same elegant blue-colored one-piece dress, jeweled bracelet, and curling hair. The same melody she had been rehearsing in the washroom now soared across the room, pulling every gaze to her.
And Rohit, frozen, could only stare.