2019, New York.
The cold wind cut through the polished highrises of New York, carrying with it the hum of distant traffic and street vendors. Tonight the air was sharp, as though time itself had cracked open, leaking frost into the world.
She never liked the cold.
By the time she braced the streets, it was four in the morning. She had run every day for the past forty years. It was quite early, and the streets were uncharacteristically empty. The soft glow of the neon lights reflected off the pavements, slick with dew, and the air seemed heavy with a silence she could not explain.
The stranger picked up her pace as she turned the corner on Fourth Street, greeting a few known faces. The moment she tripped seemed purely, accidental, a random misstep on an otherwise empty road. But the object her foot collided with — something small, something familiar, — was no stranger to her. She had seen it before…
1976, Calcutta.
Sampurna Dutta walked home from the University, her scarf pulled tightly around her neck, her breath swirling before her. It was late and the streets were unusually empty. The cold wind cut through the narrow lanes of North Calcutta, carrying with it the smell of burning coal and the quiet hum of life preparing for the night. Winter in the city was rare, more a gentle chill than the bitter cold.
She never liked the cold.
The soft glow of the gaslight reflected off the cobbled streets, slick with dew, and the air seemed heavy with a silence she could not fathom.
She was halfway down College Street when her foot caught something hard. She stumbled, arms failing, her books spilling across the ground. She cursed under her breath and bent down to retrieve them. That’s when she saw it — small round and barely visible under the dim light.
An orb.
It glowed faintly, a soft otherworldly blue that contrasted with the deep saffron-tinted shadows of the street. There was something unnervingly familiar about it, like half-remembered fragments of a dream. She picked it up, its surface cool against her skin.
Before she could think, question, or reason, her fingers tightened around the orb. And that was when everything changed.
The street warped, stretching impossibly long before snapping back into place. She gasped, her vision swimming. Then, as the world steadied, she saw her—standing just a few feet away.
Herself. Sampurna.
The other girl was identical in every way. Same dark eyes, the same tangle of hair escaping her scarf, and the same startled expression. Sampurna’s heart raced, her mind scrambling for logic, for reason. But there was none.
Without thinking, she grabbed the girl’s hand and hurried toward her home, praying no one had seen them. The city remained indifferent, its alleys and corners swallowed in silence.
2019, New York.
Dawn had begun to bleed through the cracks of the city, a pale light stretching across the skyline, casting long shadows on streets still half-asleep. The cold was biting, persistent, as if the world itself was reluctant to wake. The stranger looked at her watch—a HMT automatic, its ticking rhythmic, alive, a relic of another time. It needed attention, constant care, to keep its heart beating.
She realized, with a start, that nearly half an hour had slipped away. She had been lost in her thoughts, her gaze fixed on the small, familiar object resting in her glove-covered palm. It glimmered faintly, stirring memories from the depths of her mind—half-lived moments, fragments of dreams she wasn’t sure were her own.
The orb.
It glowed faintly, a soft otherworldly blue that contrasted with the young morning daylight.
She felt no shock at finding it. Mild surprise, perhaps, but nothing more. She had always known this day would come.
1976, Calcutta.
The shadows of early morning clung to the narrow alleyways, wrapping the city in a cold stillness. Sampurna waited, heart pounding, her breath shallow. After what felt like an eternity, she slipped through the back entrance, praying no one would notice at this hour. “The servants would be busy,” she whispered to herself, clutching at that hope. No one must see her—not like this, not with this.
The girl—the other girl—followed in silence. Her footsteps matched Sampurna’s exactly. It unnerved her, that eerie synchronization. As they climbed the narrow stairs to her room, she felt a chill in her spine.
Once inside the familiar comfort of her small, meticulously organized room, Sampurna locked the door. She leaned against it, trying to catch her breath. The other girl stood motionless, her eyes fixed on her—or perhaps on the small HMT automatic on her wrist, a gift from her father. Sampurna’s fingers brushed the cool metal of the watch, grounding her in the present.
The girl was wearing the same saree, the same blouse, even the same scarf tied around her neck—but there was one difference. She wasn’t wearing the watch.
She can’t be a perfect clone then, Sampurna thought, the relief so sudden it left her light-headed. Not a mirror, not exactly.
“Who are you?” she asked at last, her voice tight with fear.
The other girl smiled, a reflection of her own smile, and spoke in a voice that chilled her.
“I am you.”
Sampurna’s heart skipped a beat. It was her voice—her lips that had moved, her words that filled the room. There was no trick, no illusion.
“You can’t be me,” Sampurna muttered, the absurdity of the situation settling over her like a fog. “I am me.”
The girl tilted her head, her gaze unflinching. “I am you. Not as you know yourself, but I am still you.”
The words were like stones, heavy and impossible to ignore. Sampurna’s pulse quickened. She scanned the room, hoping to find some clue, some sign that this was all a terrible joke. But the silence that followed was too thick, too real. There was no escape from it.
After what felt like an eternity, Sampurna stood and walked slowly toward her reflection, eyes wide with disbelief. They were the same—exactly the same. Every detail, down to the smallest freckle, the curve of the lips, the fall of her hair. It was as though reality had bent itself to create this living copy.
Her brother had written to her last year from Munich, detailing the breakthroughs in modern science—the possibility of synthetic faces, replicated limbs. She had laughed at his words, dismissing them as science fiction. But now… now she wasn’t so sure.
Was this some bizarre creation of science? A synthetic clone?
The other girl interrupted her thoughts, speaking again, her tone calm, certain. “You are not the only version that exists. I am a version of you, and there are countless others, each living in the hearts and minds of those who know you. You exist in life, across time, even in death.”
The words cut through the room like a blade. Time. Death. They felt too large, too final. Sampurna sank back into her chair, her mind spinning, eventually her resolve stiffened.
She leaned forward, meeting the other girl’s gaze, this time with more certainty than before. “I don’t understand how or why you’re here, but until I figure it out, you stay hidden. Here. No one else can know. That’s the only way to keep us both safe. Do you understand?”
The girl nodded, obedient, almost grateful.
Sampurna glanced out the window, her eyes lingering on the flickering streetlamps that shivered in the winter air. The world outside felt distant, disconnected. Everything she had known—her life, her routine, her very sense of self—had shifted, and nothing could ever be the same again.
1976, Calcutta, Indian Coffee House.
Imagine the possibilities. The same thoughts, the same convictions, the same fire for the Revolution.
Sampurna sat among her usual group of friends at the café, though her mind wandered elsewhere. Sujoy, as always, had found a way to steer the conversation back to his beloved revolution. His revolution, the revolution.
It was predictable, almost amusing, but today Sampurna felt none of that amusement. For someone who studied physics, with all its logic and precision, he was frustratingly narrow-minded.
“But, why this sudden interest in Clones and copies? Are you behind on homework, need an extra pair of hands?”, giggled Paromita.
Laughter bubbled up around the table, soft and teasing. Sujoy’s face flushed slightly, and he gave an exaggerated sigh, the kind that always earned him attention.
Sampurna, however, wasn’t in the mood for indulgence. She leaned forward, her eyes sharp, her words like daggers cloaked in velvet. “If I ever needed an extra pair of hands, Paromita, I wouldn’t mind them being my own. And besides, I thought the great scientific minds of our colleges would have aspirations a little grander than the same old revolution. We poor literature majors can handle the lofty ideas of belief and words. Isn’t that enough?”
Sujoy scowled, and hid his face behind a steaming coffee cup.
“Look, as a hypothetical thought, its not new. Clones of objects are possible. The science is proven..”, began Rafique.
Sampurna sat up straight. Rafique was usually the quiet one. Never spoke out of turn and never joked with important matters. He might have some answers.
“However”, he continued, “The possibility of such a phenomenon is only possible at the sub atomic level. And then there is a question of time..”
Time?
Rafiq picked up a square sheet of paper and drew an arrow on it.
This is how you and I experience time.
Linear?
Yes linear, yesterday today and tomorrow can be plotted on a line.
“Now this is how a sub atomic particle experiences time.”, explained Rafique rolling the sheet of paper into a cylinder. The end of the arrow lining up neatly with its head.
I, I don’t follow, the sub atomic particle becomes a cylinder?
Rafique smiled, looking across the table towards Sampurna. He laid down the sheet, finished his coffee before speaking again.
“Energy is neither created nor destroyed. So if we create a clone, an exact copy of a particle or an object, we are borrowing energy. Ergo we are borrowing time. In due course of events, this borrowed energy has to be paid back.”
“Like a debt?”, exclaimed Sampurna.
Exactly, like a debt!
“Come on, enough theories, I am getting late for class”. Paromita was already gathering her things.
Sujoy and Rafique stood up as well. Sampurna moved slowly playing with the words in her mind.
Her friends knew little of the kind of predicament she faced.
Borrowed time. A debt.
2019, New York, John’s Coffee Shop.
The stranger sat in her usual spot, the small café tucked away on a quiet street corner, the city still wrapped in hush.
The orb rested on the table before her, glowing faintly, casting soft, otherworldly shadows on the surface. Beside it, a cup of coffee steamed lazily, though the warmth had long faded, much like the routine that had once defined her days.
She liked this time, the stillness before the world woke up. Alone, after her morning run, when the city belonged to no one but her. It was a ritual now—sitting here, meticulously planning her lectures, mapping out meetings in her mind. In a few months, she would retire. The thought felt distant, unreal, like a page she hadn’t yet turned. Still, she kept a full diary, her days brimming with papers to finish, deadlines to meet. But today, for the first time in years, she couldn’t focus on work, or the University.
Her thoughts wandered, slipping through time, back to when she first arrived in this country. The memory felt as fragile as a dream, but its weight settled heavy on her chest. She had been a stranger then—young, with a strange name and a life that felt foreign, ill-fitting. Now, decades later, she still felt like a stranger, like someone watching her own life from a distance.
She thought of Paul, still asleep in their apartment, unaware of the quiet ritual she had formed without him. She thought of her two sons, grown now, building lives of their own in Detroit. And then she thought of herself, of the years that had passed, slipping away like sand through her fingers—relentless, indifferent to her grasping. She had always found comfort in routine, in the structure she had built around her life.
But this morning, she felt time pressing against her, heavy and unyielding.
A cylinder.
She smiled to herself. She had been careful in handling the glowing orb. She had a faint idea of what would happen if she touched it with bare hands.
The stranger glanced at her coffee, its surface still and cold. She let out a long, slow sigh. Then, with deliberate patience, she peeled off the glove from her right hand.
Her fingers trembled slightly, whether from the cold or from anticipation, she couldn’t say. Slowly, she reached out, her bare hand hovering over the orb…
1976, Calcutta.
It had been a week since Sampurna had found herself, though she hadn’t sought out any more explanations, nor untangled the threads of the mystery that had unraveled before her. Certain words echoed in her mind—borrowed time, a debt, cylinder— haunting her in quiet moments like faint whispers from a forgotten past.
She had formed a hypothesis. If she found the glowing orb again, if she touched it, perhaps this copy of herself— this strange, breathing reflection would simply cease to exist. The logic felt cold, clinical. She had ventured out into the street to search for the orb, retracing her steps through the cobbled alleys, but it was gone. As though it had never been there at all.
As the girl, the other girl existed infront of her a pattern of thoughts came into Sampurna’s mind. She thought about how fragile she was, how easy it would be to snap her neck. How simple it would be.
"I wouldn’t kill you," the other girl said, her voice soft, turning her head to meet Sampurna’s gaze.
Startled by the words—by their calm certainty—Sampurna stared into the girl’s eyes, and for a moment, she saw herself reflected there. She’s right, she thought, I am not a killer. Neither is she.
In the days that followed, they slipped into a strange rhythm, a silent agreement. They began to switch places. While Sampurna stayed hidden in the shadows of her own home, the other girl—this alternate version of herself— stepped into her life, walked her paths, spoke with her friends, and moved through the world as though nothing had changed.
At first, it was seamless, like a glove sliding onto a cold hand on a winter morning. No one noticed the difference. But Sampurna did. There was something about the other girl, something brighter. She had more flair, more ease in her laughter. She wore her warmth like a second skin. Even Baba laughed more when he spoke with her, his voice lighter, his smiles easier.
Her friends, too, noticed. They asked her what had come over her, what had ignited this sudden spark of joy and spontaneity. The other girl answered for her.
No one knew the secret, of course. It was a quiet pact between Sampurna and the girl who had become her mirror. Sampurna watched from the edges of her own life, an idea forming slowly in her mind, like the first chill of a winter breeze sneaking into a warm room.
As she watched the girl— herself— moving through life, Sampurna began to turn over the thought, weighing its possibilities.
The idea was simple but bold: She could leave. She could abandon this life, this name, this world that had been carved out for her, a world where her path felt as if it had already been written. She could start anew, in some far-off place, a place that did not know her face or her name. Yes, there would be hardships, cold and uncertain, but there would also be freedom. A chance to live without the invisible chains of expectation, without the slow, inevitable slide toward a marriage she didn’t want, and a death she feared would come long before her heart stopped beating.
She had made up her mind.
Sampurna turned to the other girl, the one who had so easily stepped into her life, who seemed to fit so perfectly into the spaces she had left behind. Before she could speak, the girl spoke first, her voice soft, but empathetic.
"Yes," she said, with a calm certainty that sent a shiver through Sampurna. "I will take your place here. I will be you."
Sampurna looked at her, the weight of the decision settling over her like a blanket of snow. Borrowed time. Borrowed life.
2019, New York, 1976, Calcutta.
It had been a good life, a fulfilling one.
The stranger took one final look at the coffee shop, at the city she had grown to call home. The cold, unyielding streets of New York stretched before her, indifferent to her presence. She had never truly liked the cold— never quite made peace with the way it seeped into her bones, relentless, like time itself.
But she had made up her mind.
With a steadying breath, she reached for the orb, her fingers tightening around it. And everything changed.
The coffee shop, warped into a street, stretching impossibly long before snapping back into place. She gasped, her vision swimming. Then, as the world steadied, she saw her—standing just a few feet away.
Herself. Sampurna.
So this was the price. A steep one, the stranger thought to herself. The girl, the other one took her hand almost dragging her across the street to the room she had once known.
It was a warm touch. She was indeed a warmer version, the stranger remembered.
Once inside the familiar comfort of the small, meticulously organized room, the other girl locked the door.
She looked at her in bewilderment. It was a steep price. Her eyes traced down to the left wrist where a HMT automatic ticked on, rhythmic, alive. The stranger acutely aware of her own one missing, stared blankly at it.
A cylinder.
The question came slowly, as though wading through a dense fog, one shaped by countless winter mornings and sleepless nights.
“Who are you?”
She knows now. The stranger, the other one, she knew. She had always known.
“I am you.”
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