The humid air of Ranchi, thick and still, pressed down on Aryan like a physical weight. It was a familiar burden, one he usually navigated with the easy confidence of a local kid, but today it felt heavier, charged with an inexplicable tension. The scent of dust, exhaust, and the distant, sweet perfume of jasmine from a roadside vendor usually blended into the city's unique symphony.
Today, however, only a single, insistent note resonated in his ears – a faint, almost imperceptible hum that seemed to emanate from the ancient Sanskrit book cradled in his hands.
He'd found it tucked away in a shadowy corner of "Antiques & Oddities," a shop he usually dismissed as a dusty mausoleum for forgotten relics. Aryan, at seventeen, was far more comfortable with the sleek lines of a motherboard or the intricate code of a new program than the brittle pages of an ancient text. Yet, this book… it called to him. The faint hum was a whispered invitation only he seemed to hear, a subtle vibration against his fingertips that bypassed logic and went straight to some deeper, primal sense.
The shopkeeper, a wizened man with eyes like polished amber, had merely grunted when Aryan paid, seemingly oblivious to the peculiar energy radiating from the worn leather cover. Aryan clutched it, feeling an odd warmth emanating from its surface, a sensation both comforting and unsettling.
His walk home, usually a quick dash through familiar lanes, took a sinister turn a few blocks from his house. Three figures emerged from the lengthening shadows of a narrow alley, their smirks illuminated by the fading daylight.
Sanjeev, the tallest and meanest of the local bullies, cracked his knuckles, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "Well, well, look what we have here," he sneered, blocking Aryan's path. "Little tech-geek with a fancy old book. What's it gonna teach you, huh? How to run faster?"
Aryan's grip tightened on the book. He tried to sidestep them, but Sanjeev's accomplice, Ravi, shoved him back. "Where's the money, brainiac? Or maybe we can just teach you a lesson for looking at us the wrong way."
A flurry of punches and kicks followed. Aryan curled into a ball, trying to shield his head and the precious book. The blows rained down, a dull ache blooming across his ribs and a sharp sting on his cheek. He tasted blood, metallic and bitter. It felt like an eternity, the grunts and jeers of the bullies echoing in his ears. Finally, with a painful shove, they left him sprawled on the dusty ground, gasping for air, the book still clutched tightly to his chest.
He pushed himself up, every muscle protesting, his head throbbing. He staggered the rest of the way home, past the disapproving glances of passersby, past the curious stares. He just wanted to disappear, to crawl into the darkest corner of his room and forget the humiliation.
He finally reached his house, fumbling with the keys, his body aching, his spirit crushed. He stumbled inside, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and the lingering pain of the beating. He dragged himself to his room, the cool air a slight balm on his bruised skin. He collapsed onto his bed, the antique book still clutched in his hand.
He was so tired, so utterly drained, that he barely registered opening it. The air around him shimmered. A soft, ethereal light pulsed from the illuminated script within, not a harsh glare, but a gentle, golden glow that seemed to breathe with a life of its own. It cast dancing shadows, transforming his familiar room into something otherworldly.
"What... what happened?" he mumbled, his voice thick with fatigue and confusion. He saw the light, felt the gentle hum, but his mind, dulled by the beating and sheer exhaustion, couldn't process it. It was too much, too strange after the physical and emotional battering he'd just endured. His eyelids fluttered, heavy, irresistible. Before he could even begin to comprehend the impossible phenomenon before him, a wave of profound fatigue washed over him. He slumped deeper into his pillows, the mysterious book still radiating its soft glow beside him, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, washing away the lingering traces of the previous night's physical pain and the ethereal light. The "nightmare" of the glowing book was a distant echo, easily forgotten amidst the thrill of a new, forbidden plan and the more immediate ache of his bruised body. His older sister, Myra, twenty-four and already a sharp, no-nonsense lawyer with a fierce independence, was at work. This was his chance.
He crept to the driveway, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, despite the slight throb in his cheek. Myra's car, a sleek, gleaming black sedan, beckoned. It represented freedom, speed, and a delicious rebellion against the endless lectures about responsibility and staying off the roads until he had his license. He'd only take it for a quick spin, just around the block. No one would ever know.
He slid into the driver's seat, the cool leather beneath his palms a stark contrast to the humid air outside. The scent of Myra's perfume, faint and floral, clung to the upholstery. He adjusted the seat, his foot hovering over the pedal. Engaging reverse, he checked his mirrors, but his mind was already on the open road, picturing the wind in his hair, the thrill of accelerating. There was a sudden jolt, a soft, sickening thud that reverberated through the car, shaking him from his daydream. His stomach dropped. He hadn't seen anything.
Scrambling out, his legs feeling like lead, Aryan stumbled onto the paved driveway. His eyes were wide with a blossoming terror, the exhilarating thrill of a moment ago replaced by an icy dread. He looked down. Lying disoriented on the paved driveway, amidst a scattering of gravel and a faint sheen of oil, was a man. He was dressed in clothes that looked utterly out of time – simple, undyed fabric, draped rather than tailored, unlike anything Aryan had ever seen outside of history books. The man slowly, awkwardly, pushed himself up, his eyes wide and unfocused, his gaze sweeping over the modern bungalow, the parked cars, the very street itself as if seeing them for the very first time. He said nothing, his lips slightly parted, a profound confusion etched onto his features.
Aryan stared, transfixed. The man had an undeniable charisma, an unusual aura that shimmered faintly around him, a kind of serene intensity that was both captivating and terrifying. He wasn't speaking, but his very presence felt ancient, powerful, and utterly out of place, like a fragment of a forgotten world suddenly dropped into the mundane reality of Upper Bazaar Road. A single, overwhelming thought consumed Aryan, hot and sharp: Myra. If she found out he'd taken her car, driven without a license, and then this… the consequences would be catastrophic. The lecture would be endless, the grounding eternal. But more than that, it was the raw, visceral fear of disappointing her, of proving himself irresponsible.
Panic seized him, tightening his throat. He couldn't leave the man here. He couldn't explain this to anyone. He had to hide him.
"Hey," Aryan whispered, his voice a frantic croak, barely audible above the distant rumble of city traffic. He reached out, hesitantly touching the man's arm. The skin beneath his fingers felt strangely cool, almost like polished stone. "Are you… are you okay? Can you understand me?"
The man, just stared at him, his expression blank, unreadable. His eyes, the color of rich earth, held a depth that seemed to encompass centuries. He seemed to grasp the urgency in Aryan's eyes, even if the words meant nothing. There was no comprehension, no recognition of modern Hindi, yet a subtle tilt of his head suggested he was processing the intonation, the desperate plea in Aryan's tone.
"My house," Aryan blurted out, a desperate plea, a lifeline he was clinging to. "Come inside. Please. Just… just come." He gestured wildly towards the open door of his sprawling, but aging, bungalow, his hand trembling. The man, looked from Aryan to the house, his gaze lingering on the intricate carvings of the wooden doorframe, then back to Aryan, a silent question in his eyes. Aryan simply nodded, his fear palpable, a silent command in his desperate plea. The man, with a strange, fluid grace, a movement that seemed to ripple rather than stride, followed him inside.
Leading the man through the echoing hall, past the antique furniture draped in white sheets to protect them from dust, Aryan's mind raced, a frantic kaleidoscope of scenarios. He had to concoct a story, something believable, something that would keep Myra from discovering the truth. He ushered the man into the living room, a space that felt perpetually dim despite the afternoon sun, a room rarely used since their mother's passing years ago. The silence of the house usually felt like a hollow ache; now, with this silent stranger, it felt like a suffocating presence.
He gestured towards a plush, dust-sheeted sofa. "Please," Aryan managed, his voice still hoarse, a thin thread of sound in the cavernous room. "Sit down. Can I… can I get you anything? Water? Something for the pain?"
The man simply walked further into the room and stopped, his gaze sweeping over the silent, dust-sheeted furniture, then up to the peeling paint on the high ceiling, his eyes taking in every detail as if committing it to an ancient memory. His senses seemed to drink in the ambient air, the faint scent of old wood and dust, the quality of the light. Still, he said nothing, his expression serene, yet profoundly lost.
The distant sound of Myra's footsteps on the porch, followed by the familiar jingle of her keys, sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through Aryan. His heart hammered against his ribs. He braced himself, composing his features into a mask of concerned helpfulness.
He met her at the front door, forcing a casual tone, though his voice came out a little too high-pitched. "Sister!" he called out, trying to sound as innocent as possible. He noticed the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the slight slump of her shoulders after a long day at the district court. He knew he was adding to her burdens, but self-preservation was a powerful instinct.
"You won't believe what happened. I was just coming back from the market, you know, picking up some stuff and there was this accident," he gestured vaguely towards the street, hoping the slight damage to her car wasn't too visible from the outside, "a hit and run. This poor man," he waved his hand towards the silent figure now standing awkwardly in the living room, a statue in the dim light, "he was just lying there, completely disoriented. He looks… injured, and he doesn't seem to remember anything at all.
He can't even speak properly." He injected as much earnest concern into his voice as he could manage, carefully omitting his own involvement, the stolen car, the actual impact. "I just couldn't leave him there, you know? As a good human, I had to help him, bring him home. He needs care."
His sister Myra, her sharp lawyer's eyes immediately narrowing, walked past him, her gaze sweeping over the man. Her brow furrowed, a tiny muscle in her jaw tensing. She took in his archaic clothes, noticing how the simple fabric seemed to cling to his lithe frame, the way his dark hair was tied back in a way that felt both ancient and oddly elegant.
She saw his peculiar, almost otherworldly presence, the way he held himself with a quiet dignity that was entirely at odds with his disoriented state. He hadn't uttered a sound since she'd walked in, only stared at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. It wasn't a hostile gaze, but one of deep, unsettling observation, as if he were studying a complex equation. She could practically taste the lie on Aryan's tongue, the subtle tremor in his voice, the too-earnest gaze. But the man's apparent need was undeniable. His disorientation was evident, his very silence a testament to his lost state.
"Aryan," she said, her voice a low, dangerous growl, a warning barely concealed beneath a veneer of calm. "What exactly is going on here?" She crossed her arms, her eyes still fixed on the stranger. She noticed the slight sheen of sweat on Aryan's forehead, the way he avoided her direct gaze. Despite her wariness, a flicker of something resembling reluctant acceptance crossed her features. The man, silent and lost, was clearly in need of care. And Aryan, for all his mischievousness and penchant for bending the truth, had genuinely brought him in.
"Alright," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, a familiar gesture of exasperation mixed with resignation. "He can stay. For now. But we're getting to the bottom of this. And you," she murmured, more to herself than to him, her gaze scrutinizing his silent, unmoving form, "are certainly not normal." The very air around the man seemed to hum, a faint echo of the vibration Aryan had felt from the book, a subtle energy that Myra, with her keen instincts, could vaguely perceive. It was the whisper of something ancient, something profound, utterly out of place in their modern world.
Myra took a step closer to the stranger. "Can you tell us your name?" she asked, her voice softer now, her lawyer's training kicking in, assessing, evaluating.
The man simply looked at her, his eyes unblinking. His lips parted, as if he were about to speak, but no sound emerged. He then slowly, carefully, extended his right hand, palm up, revealing a faint, intricate scar just below his thumb, shaped like a stylized symbol Aryan couldn't quite decipher. It was not a gesture of aggression, but rather one of profound helplessness, a silent plea for understanding.
Myra hesitated, then took his hand. His skin was smooth, cool, and surprisingly firm. There was an inexplicable current that passed between them, a fleeting, almost imperceptible spark. She quickly withdrew her hand, a shiver running down her spine. This man was truly a mystery, and for some reason, she felt drawn to unravel it, even as her logical mind screamed at her to be cautious. The silent stranger, a living anomaly in their modern home, had just entered their lives, bringing with him an unspoken past that threatened to intertwine with their present, promising to shatter their quiet routine.