A.D. 1500, Early Summer — The End of an Era
Death is a thief cloaked in silence.
I remember no fanfare, no dirges sung to honor my passing—only the pale, sterile hum of a distant hospital room in an age of steel and screens. A world harsh and fragmented, where my beloved India limped forward, scarred by centuries of foreign footprints and fractured dreams.
The doctors spoke of progress—rockets soaring beyond stars, medicine healing flesh, machines calculating futures—but to me, it was all borrowed breath. A country shackled by the ghosts of colonizers, its soul robbed, its stories shattered and rewritten by strangers.
I was no stranger to history's cruel lessons. I had studied lost empires, the rise and ruin of kingdoms where India's greatness once blossomed. In every tome, in every ancient stone inscription, I found whispers of what might have been.
What if unity had held? What if the Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, and Marathi lands had stood together? What if intrusions had been repelled? What if wisdom survived, unbroken?
I was a scholar, a man burdened with hurt and hope. My last breath was a prayer whispered into the void:
"Give me one chance — just one — to live again and to change the course of history."
Then came a void.
And then, a different dawn.
Bright-hot sunlight, scents of earth and spice, the drone of temple bells.