Ashoka Mehta's fingers traced the brittle edges of an ancient palm-leaf manuscript, its Sanskrit inscriptions barely visible under centuries of dust and decay. The scent of old paper, a heady mix of turmeric, sandalwood, and time itself, filled the air of his modest study in Nashik. The ceiling fan above whirred with a lazy rhythm, slicing through the silence like a pendulum marking the passage of an era long forgotten.
Outside, the sun dipped below the Sahyadri ranges, staining the sky with hues of saffron and crimson. Inside, Ashoka was oblivious to the day's slow surrender. He sat hunched under a lamp, its golden glow bathing the pages in warmth. His mind was far from the monsoon breeze whispering against the windowpanes—it was tethered to the past, to a world that might have never existed, and yet felt achingly real.
Ashoka was not your typical historian. He wasn't satisfied with academic citations or peer-reviewed journals. His research went beyond the politics of empires and into the bloodstreams of legends—into the veins of Naga kings, Asura rebellions, and tales whispered in the dark corners of the Puranas. His thesis work on the correlation between myth and temporal anomalies in Indian history had earned ridicule and awe in equal measure.
But he didn't care.
For Ashoka, mythology was not fiction. It was memory.
The manuscript before him, a rare find gifted by an old sadhu from Trimbakeshwar, had intrigued him ever since he first glanced at it. It was written in Grantha script, with occasional insertions in an even older Brahmi hand. It spoke of a place called Gandhamadana—a mountain beyond mortal maps, said to rise between realms. A liminal world where the threads of time were loose and entangled. A place where celestial beings once roamed freely, where knowledge wasn't learned but remembered.
The manuscript described a ritual. Not just any ritual, but a "Yog-Smrti Bandhana", a binding of memory and breath. It was said to open the gateways not just to the past but to the truths buried beneath the past. The kind of ritual no academic paper could ever endorse.
But Ashoka was done writing papers.
Tonight, he would attempt the ritual.
He cleaned the space, lit lamps of ghee, and drew a yantra with vermilion and turmeric on the floor. The manuscript offered no promises—only possibilities. The chant, however, was clear:
"Om Hiranyagarbhaaya Namaha, Om Ananta-kalaaya Namaha."
He repeated the invocation, breath steady, voice rising and falling with practiced reverence. Incense smoke curled like serpents around him, the flame shadows dancing across the pages as if something unseen was stirring.
The air grew heavy. It was as if the walls of the room were breathing—exhaling dust, inhaling light. A sound filled his ears, a frequency between thunder and ocean tide, vibrating through his skull. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids weighed like stone.
And then…
Everything was still.
Everything… disappeared.
He woke to silence. Not the muffled quiet of a room but the absolute silence of the void.
Ashoka sat up with a gasp, heart pounding. He was no longer in his study.
He was lying on grass—not the wild brown tufts of Nashik's outskirts, but luminous green blades that shimmered under a sky unlike anything he'd ever seen. It was indigo, with no sun, no moon, but glowing with an inner radiance. The clouds above moved like living beings—drifting, reshaping, whispering in forgotten tongues.
He stumbled to his feet.
Around him was a valley of impossible beauty. Mountains with jagged silver peaks loomed in the distance, and waterfalls poured from the sky itself, defying gravity. Trees rose hundreds of feet tall, their bark glowing faintly as if remembering the light of stars.
Was he dreaming?
Ashoka closed his eyes, took a deep breath—and felt it.
The hum.
Not sound, not vibration—but something older. Something cosmic. It was as if the land itself had consciousness. As if the air carried awareness. His heartbeat slowed, but not from calm—from awe. This was not a dream.
This was Gandhamadana.
He turned in a slow circle, trying to orient himself, when a figure emerged from behind a tall rock.
Tall, humanoid, but not human.
His skin was sapphire-blue, his eyes bright like liquid gold. He wore a robe that shimmered like mist and carried a staff of crystal and vine.
"You are late, Ashoka Mehta," the figure said in perfect Sanskrit, the voice as melodic as temple bells. "We expected you four cycles ago."
Ashoka blinked. "You know my name?"
The being smiled gently. "We have always known. You have merely forgotten."
Ashoka's breath caught in his throat. "What is this place?"
"You stand in the folds between Kaal and Katha—Time and Story," the being said. "This is Gandhamadana, the mountain of memories. A realm outside the flow of Earth's time, where truths are preserved, not written."
"But… I performed a ritual. I was just in my study—"
"And now you are here," the being said. "Because the ritual remembers you."
"Who are you?"
"I am Vaama, of the Vidyadhara lineage. We are the caretakers of this realm, where knowledge rests until it is ready to awaken."
Ashoka felt dizzy. "This can't be real."
"Reality," Vaama said, "is a matter of remembering the right dream."
He gestured for Ashoka to follow.
As they walked, Ashoka noticed other beings in the distance—winged ones soaring above treetops, snake-bodied sages meditating mid-air, and creatures that shimmered in and out of sight like half-forgotten verses.
Time, here, had no meaning.
Or perhaps—it meant everything.
Vaama led him to a circular platform suspended in the air, surrounded by floating scrolls, rotating yantras, and constellations arranged like living architecture.
"This is the Akashagriha—the House of Sky-Memory," Vaama explained. "Every visitor is shown their Anubhav-Shila—a memory stone of a life once lived or yet to come. Yours has been long dormant."
He raised his hand.
A stone floated toward them, etched with markings that pulsed in rhythm with Ashoka's heartbeat.
Touch it, said a voice in his mind.
Ashoka did.
The world exploded in light.
He was no longer himself.
He was a warrior on the banks of the Saraswati, leading an army of sages against a monstrous Asura whose breath turned water to poison.
He was a child in Takshashila, reciting mantras beneath the watchful gaze of a blind guru.
He was a dying old man in the Gupta court, whispering secrets into scrolls that would one day be lost, only to be found by himself centuries later.
He saw all this—and more.
Lifetimes collapsed into a single breath. Time spiraled, wrapped around itself, danced to rhythms his waking mind could never grasp.
And through it all, a single thread remained constant—himself.
Or rather, the soul that remembered being Ashoka Mehta.
He awoke, gasping.
Vaama stood beside him, silent.
"You have remembered?" the Vidyadhara asked.
Ashoka nodded, trembling. "I… I've lived before."
"You never stopped."
"What does it mean?"
"That you are ready."
"For what?"
"To walk the timelines. To weave them."
"I don't understand."
"You will," Vaama said, gesturing to the horizon. "For now, rest. Tomorrow, your trials begin. You will witness the great churnings—of oceans and empires alike. You will meet beings who speak in riddles older than language. And you will be tested."
Ashoka took a deep breath. The air smelled of jasmine and sandalwood.
"Why me?" he asked quietly.
"Because you remembered," Vaama said simply. "Most forget."
As twilight deepened in that timeless world, Ashoka lay beneath a sky where constellations whispered secrets to each other. He did not know what lay ahead, only that his old world had been left behind.
And that some stories didn't begin at birth.
Some stories began when one dared to remember.