The morning after the crash, the city of Bombay felt different, as though a ripple had passed through the very soul of the place. It wasn't just the sound of the sirens or the shattered glass still littering the streets—it was something deeper, something intangible that had woven itself into the air. Gibreel Farishta, still in the hospital, could feel the change, even in the sterile white of his room.
His body had been battered by the crash, broken in ways that should have killed him, but he was still here. He should have died, but the universe had other plans for him. He wasn't sure if this feeling was a curse or a blessing, but one thing was certain: the world around him was shifting.
As Gibreel stared out the window, the city seemed far away, its hustle and bustle reduced to a faint hum in the distance. But there was a new sound now—an undercurrent of unease. The people below seemed to be moving faster, talking louder, their expressions more frantic, more desperate. It was as though the city itself had been infected with something.
For Gibreel, the physical pain was nothing compared to the ache inside him. The question that haunted him the most was why. Why had he survived? He had lost everything—his career, his love, his identity. And yet, here he was, a man who had once been adored by millions, now reduced to a broken shell of his former self.
And then there were the visions. Strange, fleeting images that seemed to swim just outside his consciousness. They came to him in the moments between sleep and wakefulness—fleeting glimpses of a world beyond this one, of people whose faces he didn't recognize but who seemed somehow familiar. The feeling that he was being watched, that something was waiting for him, gnawed at him.
He couldn't shake the sensation that he was being pulled toward something greater than himself, something far more ancient and powerful. But what could that be? And why him?
As he lay in the hospital bed, surrounded by the sterile walls and the constant beeping of machines, Gibreel's thoughts turned inward. He had once been a man of faith, but in the years that had passed, that faith had eroded, replaced by the harsh reality of fame, success, and loss. But now, in the silence of the hospital room, he found himself wondering if the universe had a plan for him after all. And if it did, what would it demand of him?
Suddenly, the door opened, and a nurse entered, her face drawn with concern. "Mr. Farishta," she said softly, "you have visitors."
Visitors? Gibreel hadn't been expecting anyone. But before he could respond, the door opened again, and two figures entered the room.
It was them. The figures he had seen in his visions. They were real. They stood before him, as solid and tangible as the hospital bed beneath him. The man in the black suit had a stern, calculating expression, while the woman in the white robe had an air of serenity about her that seemed to contrast sharply with the chaos that surrounded them.
"Who are you?" Gibreel asked, his voice hoarse.
The man spoke first. "We are here because you have a role to play in the coming events. You survived for a reason, Gibreel Farishta."
The woman nodded. "A reason that is tied to the fate of the world."
Gibreel felt a chill run down his spine. This was no ordinary visit. This was something far greater than he had ever imagined. The world was changing, and somehow, he was at the center of it all.
"You will need to trust us," the man continued. "The journey ahead will not be easy, but it is necessary. We have much to teach you."
Before Gibreel could respond, the door slammed shut, and the room was plunged into silence once more. The figures were gone, leaving behind only the lingering sensation that something monumental was about to unfold.
As Gibreel lay there, his mind racing with questions, one thought lingered above all others: What had just happened?
But the answer, it seemed, would have to wait. The world was shifting, and Gibreel Farishta was about to be swept up in the storm.