Time: 486 CE
Place: Ashmaka (modern-day Bihar)
The rains had passed. The smell of wet cow dung and neem lingered gently in the thatched-roof hut that Aryabhata called home. He was ten, slender, thoughtful, and possessed eyes that never stopped watching the sky.
The hut was small. His father, a learned scribe at the local temple school, often said the house could barely hold the wisdom in Aryabhata’s head. His mother would laugh, ruffle his hair, and press warm rice balls into his hand.
It started, as all great love stories do, in line for overpriced coffee at Comic Con.
Ishaan stood there, fidgeting with his con pass, glancing sideways at the woman next to him. Cargo pants, boots slightly scuffed, a subtle enamel pin of the One Ring on her canvas tote. Glasses slightly askew. Not cosplay, but dangerously close to I-know-more-lore-than-you energy.
“Long line,” he said, casual, like a normal person.
“Yeah,” she replied, squinting at the menu. “I’m only here for caffeine. And maybe mild existential dread.”
He chuckled. Okay. Good start.