A gust of wind picked up a piece of paper and tumbled it playfully across the slab. Max instinctively swooped on it, snapping it up off the ground. The word Charminar was emblazoned across an idyllic scene – a small white castle crowning the peak of a mountain at daybreak.

Charminar.

That’s your sign.

“You are going home,” the old man had said.

Charminar – home.

“You go through a gate.

“A gate only you can enter.”

That’d be right.

You could bet no one else is looking for Charminar right now.

This is for you alone.

Go for it!

A surge of adrenaline kicked into his heels as he stepped off the slab. He was on the very edge now, teasingly close to accelerating away into the night but still something was missing. He could feel in his bones an agonizing restraint, something not right – not yet perfect.

Was he just paralyzed by fear – was it the same old problem?

No, it didn’t feel like that. It was more like he’d forgotten something he might need.

As he walked past India Gate one last time, he glanced inside and scanned the sleeping bodies, screening the scene for something… anything.

Then he saw a stick leaning against the wall, apparently abandoned. The old man had a stick – that was one of the first things Max had noticed about him – a stick he didn’t seem to need.

The sadhu also had a stick.

Mate… you need a solid stick.

He stole into the building, grabbed the stick and took off with all the guilt-fuelled, supercharged adrenaline of a first time thief in the night…

Charminar.

Charminar.