Synchronicity & SIGNS
Russian Roulette in a Dream
Russian Roulette in a Dream
Russian Roulette in a Dream
Was it luck, fate, or a hidden sign? Russian roulette pushes Meeraj to the brink, where synchronicity plays its darkest game.
The Crow at Room 207
Russian Roulette in a Dream
Russian Roulette in a Dream
Alone, feveris and stranded in a Bihar hotel room, a man whispers a desperate plea for divine help. What he didn't expect was a mysterious visitor
Was it Mahakaal
A missed childhood holiday
A missed childhood holiday
On the day he remembered his father, a mysterious sadhu arrived, asked for chai, and left without leaving a trace.
A missed childhood holiday
A missed childhood holiday
A missed childhood holiday
She never remembered putting money in that purse. Yet it vanished—and with it, their travel plans. A real-life 1990s story where a small twist of fate may have saved lives.
About Stardust Tales
Russian Roulette in a Dream
He was drenched in sweat. They had been in a game — a dangerous game at that. The participant before him had placed the pistol against his temple, pulled the trigger, and miraculously survived. Now, with a sinister grin, he passed the revolver to Meeraj.
It was Meeraj’s turn. In this game of Russian Roulette, he was face-to-face with death.
In a split second, his mind spiraled: Oh my God, I’m going to die. It will be painful. My life will end here. What do I do? Why didn’t I ever prepare myself for death? Panic consumed him. His breath turned ragged, his palms clammy, and his heart pounded like a war drum.
The dreaded moment had come. He had no memory of how he had landed in that grim room, no way to escape, and no backing out — it was the rule of the game. With trembling fingers, he lifted the pistol. The cold metal burned against his skin as he was about to pull the trigger.
And then — he jolted awake.
Gasping, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. It had all been a dream. But it felt terrifyingly real — the pistol’s weight, the metallic taste of fear, the suffocating panic. He sat upright, shaken.
"What if I had pulled the trigger in the dream?" he whispered to himself. "Would I have woken up again — or would I have slipped into another realm, never to return?"
In waking life, Meeraj (name changed on request) was no stranger to dilemmas. He was struggling with a forced house move, pondering a side hustle, juggling investment options, and feeling restless with constant disruptions in his personal and professional life. Seeking solace, he had spent the weekend mostly alone — finishing chores, distracting himself with books and web series, and dining out with family. But nothing calmed his mind.
On Sunday evening, he felt drawn to the nearby Kali temple. By 5:50 p.m., he was seated quietly in a corner of the nearly empty shrine. The fierce goddess, Kali — embodiment of destruction, transformation, and death — stared back at him with fiery eyes. Oddly, her image did not frighten him. Instead, it brought calm. He closed his eyes and meditated.
“Mother Kali,” he prayed silently, “show me the way.”
For an hour he sat in stillness, surrendering his restless thoughts. When he finally opened his eyes, his mind felt lighter. He returned home, had dinner, and went to bed early — only to be thrust into that horrifying Russian Roulette dream.
Was it coincidence? Or was it the goddess’s way of reminding him that death lurks at every corner, that life can change in a single instant, and that he needed clarity to face his transitions?
The dream left him with a strange sense of awakening. It wasn’t just fear of death — it was a message. A message hidden within the chaos of the subconscious, perhaps triggered by Kali’s energy: embrace endings, for they lead to new beginnings.
Meeraj could not shake off the feeling. The revolver, the bullet, the grin of his opponent — all felt like symbols. His near-death experience in the dream wasn’t an ending but a warning, a reminder to step forward boldly into change rather than resist it.
The Crow at Room 207: A Mysterious Encounter in Begusarai
Not all journeys are about destinations. Some, like this one, are about the visitors we don’t expect
Unlike the many routine work trips Krishna Rao had taken from Vadodara to Begusarai, his January 2024 visit turned out to be anything but ordinary. For a week every month -five months consecutively, he had stayed at the same Hotel in Barauni- Purnea highway of Begusarai, Bihar. He followed a typical business schedule with early morning pickups and late evening drop-offs. But this time, the unforgiving Bihar winter caught him off guard.
With inadequate winter clothing and an early onset of fever upon reaching Patna, Krishna landed at his hotel feeling cold, sick and mentally drained. What was meant to be another work-filled day turned into a lonely, feverish confinement within four walls.
Despite the hotel’s lush green surroundings and comforting view, nothing lifted his sinking spirits. His body ached. He missed his family. And he began slipping into a dark spiral of isolation and hopelessness.
“I told myself I would get divine help. I always did- but this time, I wasn’t sure,” he later recalled.
And just as he was confronting a deeply morbid thought — "What if I die in this hotel room?" — a knock interrupted his spiraling mind.
He rushed to the door. No one was there.
Then he heard it again. This time, clearer — coming from the window.
He opened the curtains to find a black crow perched firmly on the parapet, tilting its head from side to side, staring at him with an oddly familiar intensity. It pecked at the window again, as though asking for food.
Driven by instinct, Krishna scrambled through his leftovers and offered the bird a few crumbs of bread. The crow accepted the offering, lingered for a while—maintaining eye contact—and then flew away. Over the next three days, at the exact same time—9:45 a.m.—the crow returned, asked for food and kept him company. His presence somehow managed to comfort him and keep him amused. they way the crow came and demanded food was unique- I almost started waiting for it every morning and by the fourth day I was feeling better," he said. And then the crow stopped coming...
“It suddenly struck me — our Vedas refer to crows as Kakabhushundi,” he said. “They are believed to represent ancestral spirits, our pitrus watching over us.”
It came when his fever was at its worst, and disappeared the morning he finally felt healthy. This left him thinking if the crow was indeed his ancestors coming to help him.
Coincidence? Or a sign from the other side?
Was It Mahakaal at My Door?
This otherworldly experience was encountered by Vaidyaraj Subramaniam in May 2025.
"It was just another quiet afternoon in Baroda. I stood in my tenement courtyard, watering the plants. The layout of my home gives me full visibility—any person approaching or leaving is always clearly seen. But what happened that day left me questioning reality," narrated Vaidyaraj.
In a blink, a sadhu appeared. Just like that.
No footsteps, no shadow before him.
“Alakh Niranjan,” he said, his voice deep and echoing—like thunder wrapped in silence.
"It struck through my chest. It was a resounding heavy voice that almost made me shiver," remembers Vaidyaraj.
The Sadhu was tall- had wild matted hair, his forehead smeared with ash and rudraksha malas hung around his neck. A dhoti-clad figure who seemed more ancient than present.
And yet, something about him unsettled Vaidyaraj. The Sadhu looked straight at him and pointed to the vermillion and ash on his forehead, remnants from the morning prayer.
“You too are a devotee of Mahadev,” he said.
It was the day of the monthly shraddha for Vaidyaraj's father who passed just two months ago. "I felt compelled—almost pulled—to offer him something. So, I gave him a potli of rice meant for the next day’s ritual and ₹100 as dakshina," he said.
But the Sandhu lingered.
“Chai pilayiye, Aap bhi Bhakt hai” he said. (Offer me tea, You too are a devotee.)
That’s when something shifted inside Vaidyaraj.
“Maharaj, I’ve already given you dakshina. You may have tea with that. I closed the door respectfully—but firmly. I’d never seen a sadhu act like that—persistent, greedy even. The sadhus I’d met near the Narmada or during Kumbh Mela had never asked for more," he recalls. Many Sadhus heading to Narmada stop at houses in Baroda and nearby areas but they usually live an ascetic life, Vaidyaraj thought to himself.
Something gnawed at him and instantly Vaidyaraj opened the door to see whether the Sadhu was still at his door.
The Sadhu was gone, in a matter of seconds which was strange!
Not to the left.
Not to the right.
Not down the narrow road. Gone, just vanished.
"From my gate, it takes at least 2–3 minutes to walk out of view. I had looked again in under 30 seconds. I even tested the time by pacing across the house. He couldn't have disappeared that fast," he said.
Shaken, he tried to return to normalcy. But as he began cooking, a knock echoed—
First on the outer gate,
Then the angan grill,
Then the main door.
Three separate knocks.
No one ever knocks during this hour. The gas bill had come the day before. The maid never rings.
He rushed to the door.
No one.
Only the heat of the sun and the eerie weight of something unexplainable.
And then he remembered…
They say Mahakaal himself sometimes walks the Earth—in ash and silence—testing the devotion of his own. He appears when rituals are performed, when the veil is thin, when hearts are open.
"Was it just a sadhu?
Or was it Shiva in his fierce, testing form?
I’ll never know.
But the air felt heavier that day.
And I haven’t looked at knocks—or silence—the same way since," said Vaidyaraj.
A MISSED CHILDHOOD HOLIDAY
The Forgotten Purse and the Train That Burned: A Childhood Trip That Never Happened
"It wasn’t me who put the money in the purse!" gasped Parvinder, years later, still haunted by that one family decision that may have saved their lives.
Back in the early 1990s, ten-year-old Parvinder Bhamra was bursting with excitement. Her family was gearing up for their annual summer trip to Amritsar, a journey that meant meeting cousins, uncles, aunts—and receiving the kind of affection that only Punjab’s extended families know how to give.
This was an era before UPI and ATMs, when travel meant months of preparation. Her mother cooked heaps of puris and aloo sabzi, packed snacks in steel dabbas and made sure everyone had new clothes for the trip. Her father, ever the planner, arrived two days before departure, holding a thick bundle of cash meant for travel and stay. He handed it to her mother to keep safe.
Then came an unexpected visit.
Her father’s rakhi sister called from Delhi, saying she was in town and wanted to meet. As per tradition, a gift had to be given. With no time to buy anything and unwilling to touch the journey money, they scanned the house for options. Her mother, offered her new leather handbag—the one she had bought especially for the trip.
The sister was gifted the bag.
Dinner was served.
Goodbyes were said.
Everyone went to bed, preparing for the early morning train to Amritsar.
But just before they could leave the next morning, chaos broke out.
"Where’s the money?" her father asked. It was gone. The entire house was turned upside down. Every drawer, every box, every suitcase was searched.
After a tense 30 minutes, they had no choice—they had to cancel the trip.
Parvinder remembers the tears, the frustration, the confusion. Where did the money vanish?
The next day, the news came like a thunderclap.
The train they were supposed to board—the same train to Amritsar—had caught fire. Several passengers lost their lives in the mishap.
Hours later, the rakhi sister called, puzzled and slightly irritated:
“Who gives so much money as a gift stuffed into a purse?”
That’s when it hit them. The entire cash bundle had accidentally been left in the handbag gifted to her.
Till this day, no one remembers who placed the money in the bag. Parvinder swears it wasn’t her. Her mother too swears it her, nor her father. Could it have been divine intervention? An act of fate? Or just an extraordinary coincidence?
She never made it to Amritsar that summer.
But she may have lived because of it.