The rhythmic clack-clack, clack-clack of the train wheels against the tracks was a hypnotic constant, a metallic heartbeat carrying Kunal further and further away from the familiar chaos of Mumbai. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the landscape transform outside. The dense urban sprawl had gradually given way to greener fields, then to drier, dustier plains as the train forged steadily north. Hours bled into a day, then another night. "Kitna lamba safar hai yeh?" (How long is this journey?) he thought, the sheer scale of the subcontinent pressing in on him.
He spent the time in a state of suspended animation. He reviewed Ananya's meticulously compiled notes on Taxila – maps of the sprawling archaeological sites, summaries of its history as a melting pot of cultures and learning under Mauryan rule and before, lists of key excavations. He tried to meditate, focusing on the rakṣā mantra she'd given him, but his mind was a turbulent sea. Fear warred with anticipation. Fragments of memories flickered at the edges of his consciousness – the chilling certainty of the blade at his throat (Vadho), Ashoka's sorrowful eyes, the pale, unreadable gaze of the man at Elephanta. He felt exposed, vulnerable, travelling alone into the heartland of his past life. He found himself constantly scanning the faces of other passengers, the platforms at brief station stops, searching for any sign of undue interest, any hint of the watchers. Was the bhayam (fear) making him paranoid, or was the adrishya shatru (unseen enemy) truly everywhere?
Finally, after what felt like an eternity compressed into two days, the train pulled into a bustling station in the northern province, the air noticeably drier, the sunlight harsher than Mumbai's humid haze. This was the gateway to the region that had once been the thriving heart of the ancient kingdom of Gandhara, where Taxila had shone as a beacon of knowledge. He shouldered his single backpack, stepping off the train into a different world. The language spoken around him shifted, the cadence unfamiliar. The scent wasn't of sea salt and exhaust fumes, but dust, spices, and woodsmoke. "Yahan sab kuch kitna alag hai." (Everything is so different here.)
He found a modest guesthouse in the nearby town, a place with clean enough rooms and mercifully few questions asked. Leaving most of his gear, taking only essentials, water, Ananya's notes, and the burner phone (which showed weak but usable signal here), he hired a local auto-rickshaw. The driver, an old man with a heavily wrinkled face and eyes that seemed to hold the patience of the surrounding hills, nodded when Kunal requested, "Taxila ruins. Jo sabse purana hissa hai, wahan. (The part which is the oldest, there.)"
The ride took them out of the town, towards rolling hills dotted with scrubby vegetation. And then, the ruins began to appear. Not as a single, concentrated site, but spread out, vast and silent under the immense sky. Weathered stupas broke the horizon line, foundation stones sketched the ghosts of ancient monasteries and dwellings, sections of thick, crumbling walls marked the boundaries of forgotten cities. The sheer age of the place was palpable, a silent weight in the air. Kunal felt a strange vibration hum beneath his skin, a dissonant chord blending awe with a deep, unsettling resonance, like a half-remembered song. Purani yaadein. (Old memories.) They weren't clear flashes yet, just a feeling, a sense of having walked this earth before under a different sky.
Ananya's notes suggested starting at the main Taxila museum or the well-excavated Dharmarajika complex. But as the auto-rickshaw navigated the dusty track, Kunal felt a distinct pull, an undeniable urge drawing his attention away from the more famous landmarks towards a specific, less prominent cluster of ruins nestled against a low hill in the distance. Sirkap, the second city, built by Bactrian Greeks, later absorbed into the Mauryan sphere? Or Jaulian monastery further out? He wasn't sure, the geography fuzzy in his mind, but the feeling was strong.
"Uss taraf chalo, bhai," Kunal instructed the driver, pointing towards the hill. "Woh jo টিলা hai, uske paas. (Go that way, brother. Near that hill.)"
The driver grunted, turning the auto onto an even rougher track. He glanced back at Kunal with faint curiosity but didn't question the diversion. They bumped along for another fifteen minutes before Kunal asked him to stop near the base of the hill, where low stone walls marked the beginning of an extensive ruined complex – likely a monastery or university section. He paid the driver, arranging for him to return in a few hours.
Alone now, Kunal started walking amongst the stones. The silence was profound, broken only by the wind whistling through the ruins and the distant cry of a bird. Walls barely waist-high mapped out rooms, courtyards, assembly halls. He walked slowly, letting instinct guide him, his hand occasionally brushing against the sun-warmed, time-worn stone. He felt like an archaeologist of his own soul.
He found himself drawn towards what looked like the foundation of a large, circular stupa base, surrounded by the outlines of small chambers – monk's cells, perhaps. He stepped into the central area, the sun beating down. He closed his eyes, trying to filter out the noise of his own modern anxieties, reaching for that deeper resonance. What happened here? Why does this place call to me?
He opened his eyes and focused on a section of wall nearby, one that still bore faint traces of ancient plaster. And beneath the plaster, almost invisible, were carvings. Not the elaborate Greco-Buddhist art Taxila was known for, but something simpler, older. Symbols. He knelt, tracing one with his finger. It was a familiar geometric pattern, intricate, precise – reminiscent of the techno-mandala overlays he'd seen in AI-generated images, but undeniably ancient. And beside it, a single character etched deep into the stone, worn but legible in an archaic form of Brahmi script. He didn't recognize the character itself from his modern knowledge, yet his mind supplied the meaning instantly, a whisper from the void: Ārambha (Beginning/Origin).
As the meaning resonated, the world flickered.
Flash.
He wasn't Kunal anymore. He was younger, much younger, dressed in the simple saffron robes of a student novice, not a prince. He stood in this very courtyard, though it was complete then, plastered and perhaps painted. Dust motes danced in the sharp sunlight. Across from him stood a stern-faced monk, his head shaved, his eyes piercingly intelligent.
"The mind shapes reality, Kunala," the monk's voice was calm but resonated with authority. He wasn't speaking Sanskrit exactly, but a related Prakrit dialect Kunal somehow understood. "Control the thought, understand the pattern (niyama), and you grasp the keys to the world, seen and unseen. Remember the lipi (script/symbol) we studied? The geometry of creation?" The monk pointed towards the symbol Kunal had just touched in the present day. "It is more than art. It is a map. A beginning. Ārambha."
The memory dissolved, leaving Kunal kneeling in the dust, gasping, the phantom scent of incense and old scrolls in his nostrils. A student? Here? Before he was known as the prince? The memory felt foundational, intensely personal. This place was a beginning. He looked at the symbol again, burning its shape into his mind. A map? To what?
His heart was pounding. This was it. This was the connection he needed. He pulled out the burner phone to take a picture of the symbol, his hands shaking slightly. As he focused the camera, his foot scuffed against something small and hard buried just beneath the surface dust near the wall. Curious, he brushed the dust away.
It was a small piece of polished, dark stone, like obsidian, no bigger than his thumb. It felt cool to the touch. As he picked it up, he noticed faint, almost invisible lines etched onto its surface – they seemed to correspond exactly to a section of the complex geometric symbol on the wall. It wasn't just a rock; it felt like a fragment, a key, or a marker.
He pocketed the stone, a thrill running through him despite the underlying fear. He had found something. But as he stood up, scanning the silent, empty ruins surrounding him, a cold prickle ran down his spine. The profound silence suddenly felt wrong. Too still.
He slowly turned, looking back towards the low hills surrounding the complex.
High up, nestled amongst the rocks, almost perfectly camouflaged, was a flicker of reflected light. Like sunshine glinting off binoculars. Or a rifle scope.
The feeling of being watched slammed back into him, a hundred times stronger than in Mumbai. They hadn't just watched him leave. They had followed him. Or they were already here, waiting.
The journey of discovery had just become a hunt once more.
To be continued...