The air in the hidden chamber beneath Taxila crackled with Kunal's anticipation. The metallic disc on the stone shelf seemed to thrum with latent power, and the obsidian fragment in his hand felt like the key not just to this chamber, but perhaps to everything. Taking a breath, focusing his intent, he carefully approached the low shelf. The depression in the center of the disc looked perfectly sized. With steady fingers, he slotted the obsidian fragment into place.
He braced himself—for a flash of light, a holographic display, a surge of energy, anything.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing happened. The disc remained dark, inert. The obsidian fragment sat snugly in its slot, but no connection was made, no mechanism whirred, no ancient technology sprang to life. "कुछ नहीं?! (Kuch nahin?!) [Nothing?!]" Kunal felt a wave of profound anti-climax, quickly followed by frustration. He gently nudged the fragment, tried rotating it slightly. Still nothing. Was it broken? Was the power source dead after millennia? Or was he missing something? Another step, another component?
Disappointment settled heavily. He carefully retrieved the obsidian fragment, pocketing it again. If the disc wasn't the immediate answer, maybe the chamber itself held more clues. He turned his attention back to the walls, playing his flashlight beam slowly over the intricate inscriptions that covered the smooth stone.
The script drew his eye, mesmerizing and baffling. It flowed with an internal logic, lines curving and intersecting with geometric precision, unlike any script he knew. It wasn't ब्राह्मी (Brāhmī), not खरोष्ठी (Kharoshṭhī), not देवनागरी (Devanāgarī). Yet, it felt hauntingly familiar, like waking from a dream where you spoke a language you couldn't recall. He knelt closer to a section, trying to decipher it.
He could pick out individual sounds, phonetic components—syllables that echoed the धातु (dhātu) [roots] of Sanskrit. Sounds like ka, ma, pra, shun. But they were combined in sequences that defied conventional grammar, arranged in patterns that seemed more mathematical than linguistic. He could almost grasp fragments, like recognizing letters in an equation without understanding the formula. "ये... भाषा... अलग है। (Yeh... bhāṣā... alag hai.) [This... language... is different.]" he murmured aloud, the realization dawning. "ये अलग तरह से सोचती है। (Yeh alag tarah se sochti hai.) [It thinks differently.]"
It felt structured, precise, but built on principles he didn't yet possess. The language of the pattern? The foundation for the quantum ideas swimming in his own subconscious? A seed, planted here, waiting millennia. He took several photos with the burner phone, hoping Ananya, with her linguistic brilliance, might see something he couldn't—assuming he ever got a signal again.
But deciphering it now was impossible. And staying here felt increasingly unwise. The chamber, despite its secrets, felt like a dead end for the moment. That left only the dark, arched opening on the opposite wall. A passage leading deeper underground. He didn't want to go, every nerve ending screaming caution, but what choice did he have? The way back up was blocked, the disc was inert, the script incomprehensible.
Steeling himself, he checked his flashlight batteries, ensured the obsidian fragment was secure, took a swig from his water bottle, and stepped towards the archway. The air flowing out felt cooler, damper, carrying the scent of deep earth and stone. He swept the light inside—a narrow passage, just wide enough for one person, sloped gently downwards. It looked ancient, the stonework similar to the chamber. Taking a deep breath, Kunal stepped through the arch, leaving the chamber of the inert disc behind him, plunging into the unknown.
The passage twisted and turned, descending deeper beneath the earth. The silence was absolute, broken only by the scuff of his own footsteps and the sound of his breathing, amplified in the enclosed space. Occasionally, water dripped somewhere in the darkness ahead. He moved slowly, cautiously, sweeping the flashlight beam, checking for unstable footing, side passages, or any sign of traps. He saw none, only the endlessly repeating pattern of dressed stone walls, marked here and there with the same strange script and geometric symbols. Time lost meaning. Had he been walking for minutes or an hour? The isolation was profound, pressing in on him. He fought against the fear, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, pushing forward into the darkness.
Just as the monotony and the growing dread threatened to overwhelm him, the passage opened out. He stepped forward into another space, larger than the first chamber, feeling different. Less constructed, more like a natural cavern that had been partially worked. Stalactites hung from the high ceiling, lost in the shadows above his flashlight beam. The air here felt slightly fresher. In the center of the cavern floor, illuminated by his light, was a simple, low platform of worn stone.
As Kunal's light touched the platform, the air shimmered. The cavern walls seemed to dissolve, replaced by a different light, a different time.
Vision.
He stood in what seemed to be a scholar's study, austere but functional. Scrolls lined shelves, and charts depicting constellations and perhaps geographical regions were pinned to the walls. Seated behind a simple wooden desk was a man Kunal recognized instantly, though he looked older, wearier, than the sharp-eyed strategist history remembered. His face was deeply lined, his frame leaner, but his eyes—dark, intelligent, missing none of the legendary sharpness—fixed on Kunal with an unnerving intensity.
Acharya Chanakya.
"So," Chanakya's voice was raspy, aged, but carried the weight of authority. He spoke an older form of प्राकृत (Prākṛta) [Prakrit], yet Kunal understood perfectly. "The echo returns. Listen well, descendant of the lion. सिंह वंशज (Siṃha vaṃśaja) [descendant of the lion]. Your path is paved with the triumphs and shadows of those who came before."
The vision seemed to know Kunal's need for context. "Your great-grandfather, चन्द्रगुप्त (Chandragupta)," Chanakya continued, a flicker of fierce pride in his eyes, "forged an साम्राज्य (sāmrājya) [empire] from chaos, brought एकता (ekatā) [unity] where there was division. A monumental achievement. But unity borne of conquest breeds resentment in the shadows. Enemies were made, promises broken, secrets buried that festered like poison."
His gaze hardened. "Your grandfather, बिन्दुसार अमित्रघात (Bindusāra Amitraghāta)—Slayer of Foes—a worthy title, but the foes he fought were not always external. He wrestled constantly to hold the empire together against विद्रोह (vidroh) [rebellion] and dissent, much of it sown subtly by those गुह्य शत्रु (guhya śatru) [hidden enemies] who resented Mauryan power, who operated from the darkness using whispers and manipulation."
Chanakya leaned forward slightly. "And your father… अशोक प्रियदर्शी (Aśoka Priyadarśī). Beloved of the Gods. His conquest of कलिंग (Kaliṅga) shook him to his core, turned him towards धर्म (dharma) [righteousness]. A noble path! He sought to rule not by the sword, but by righteousness. He spread his message of peace across the known world." A deep sigh escaped the old strategist. "But peace is abhorrent to those who thrive on conflict, on control. His vision threatened them. His compassion, they saw as weakness. The same hidden lineage, the inheritors of ancient grudges and dark knowledge, worked against him. They couldn't break his empire, so they sought to break his heart, his line. They targeted you, his favoured son, the one most like him in spirit, blinding you to halt the succession they feared."
Chanakya's spectral eyes bored into Kunal's. "Understand this, कुणाल (Kuṇāla). These enemies did not vanish with your death or your father's grief. They adapt. They endure. They are the shadow beneath the throne, the whisper in the corridors of power, the unseen hand guiding events towards their own dark culmination. They fear the return of the true चक्रवर्तिन् (Chakravartin) principle—balance, dharma, wisdom. They fear you."
The vision dissolved.
Kunal stood alone again in the silent cavern, the weight of centuries pressing down on him. Chanakya's words echoed in his mind, providing the missing pieces, the context for his fragmented memories. It wasn't just a personal vendetta; it was a generational war against a shadowy cabal that had haunted his family for generations. His blinding wasn't random cruelty; it was a calculated political act. He finally understood the stakes.
---
Cutaway:
Back in Mumbai, in Abhishek's apartment, the mood was thick with worry. Abhishek stared intently at a laptop screen, scrolling through databases of engineering college projects from across northern India, trying to cross-reference names with any online presence. He'd set up complex search filters, trying to find needles in haystacks as Kunal had asked.
Ananya sat curled on the sofa nearby, a tablet displaying archaeological reports on Taxila open but ignored on her lap. In her hand was her phone, displaying a photo—her and Kunal, taken months ago at Marine Drive, both laughing, the sea breeze whipping their hair, the weight of the world seemingly absent. A small, sad smile touched her lips before she sighed, her worry a palpable thing.
"Anything?" Abhishek asked without looking up.
"Nothing from Kunal. Not since he landed and called. Tracker's offline. Panic button silent." Ananya's voice was quiet. "Just… silence."
"He'll be okay, Anu," Abhishek said, his voice rough with forced confidence. "He's smart. Resourceful. And maybe that weirdo at Elephanta was actually trying to help, in his own creepy way."
"होना ही चाहिए, अभि। (Honā hī chāhiye, Abhi.) [He has to be, Abhi.]" she whispered, staring at the photo. They fell back into silence, the hum of the laptop the only sound as they focused on their assigned task, trusting Kunal to navigate his own perilous path.
---
Back to Kunal:
The silence in the underground cavern felt different now, charged with the echoes of Chanakya's revelations. Kunal felt less like a victim of circumstance and more like a soldier, albeit a very isolated one, in a very old war. He looked around the cave more carefully. Was there another way out from here? Or was this simply a place for receiving knowledge? His flashlight beam caught another low archway, similar to the one he'd entered through, leading further into the darkness on the far side of the cavern.
The path continued.
He checked the obsidian fragment again, then the inert disc in his memory. Maybe the disc needed something else? Or maybe its purpose wasn't activation, but... resonance? He needed more information. Taking a deep breath, armed with the grim history of his lineage and the knowledge of enduring enemies, Kunal squared his shoulders and headed towards the next dark passage.
The journey deeper into the earth, and deeper into his past, was far from over.
To be continued...