Eternal Ashes: The Rise of Akhand Bharat

The air was thick with the scent of earth and history as Rajeev Mehta stepped cautiously through the crumbling ruins of Nalanda University. The once-great seat of learning, where scholars from across the ancient world had gathered, was now a desolate expanse of moss-covered walls and broken pillars. Yet, even in its decay, the place exuded an undeniable aura of grandeur.

Rajeev adjusted his glasses and paused to take in the sight. A historian by passion and a policy expert by profession, he had spent his career grappling with the weight of India's complex legacy. The ruins were meant to inspire him for an upcoming global summit on cultural heritage, yet he found himself unsettled. Something about the air seemed alive, heavy with a presence he couldn't name.

He glanced at his smartwatch, the modern device an odd contrast to the ancient surroundings. "Well," he muttered to himself, "maybe I'll find some inspiration if I dig deeper."

He walked further into the ruins, his footsteps crunching on loose gravel. The sunlight, filtered through dense overgrowth, created intricate patterns on the ground. Birds chirped in the distance, and the occasional rustle of leaves hinted at the presence of small animals. Yet, beneath it all, Rajeev felt something else—a quiet hum, almost imperceptible, like the faint vibrations of a tuning fork.

It drew him forward.

Deeper into the ruins, he stumbled upon a clearing. At the center lay a partially collapsed chamber. The faint hum grew stronger, almost melodic now, resonating through his chest. Cautiously, Rajeev descended into the chamber, where the faint light revealed something extraordinary: a circular artifact embedded in the floor, its surface etched with intricate symbols.

The artifact shimmered faintly, its golden glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Rajeev knelt, brushing away layers of dirt and moss. The design was unmistakable—it resembled the Ashoka Chakra, the emblem on India's flag. But this wasn't mere decoration. The spokes of the wheel seemed alive, the patterns shifting subtly as he gazed at them.

"Ashoka Chakra?" he murmured aloud, though the words felt inadequate to describe what lay before him.

His fingers hesitated over the surface, the hum now a steady vibration in his chest. Before he could touch it, a voice broke the silence.

"You have found it."

Rajeev froze. The voice was deep, resonant, and filled with an authority that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Turning sharply, he saw an old man standing at the entrance to the chamber. Dressed in simple white robes, the man's eyes glowed faintly, their intensity cutting through the dim light.

"Who are you?" Rajeev asked, rising to his feet.

The old man stepped closer, his movements deliberate and calm. "I am but a keeper of time," he said, his voice carrying an air of inevitability. "And you, Rajeev Mehta, are at a crossroads. The choices you make today will shape the fate of this land—and the world."

Rajeev's skepticism flared. "How do you know my name? What is this thing?" He gestured at the artifact, his tone sharp.

The old man smiled faintly. "It is the Chakra of Eternity, an artifact older than empires, created to guard the destiny of this land. It chooses its wielder in times of great need. And now, it has chosen you."

Rajeev shook his head, a nervous laugh escaping him. "I think you've got the wrong guy. I'm a policy analyst, not some… savior of destiny."

The old man tilted his head, his expression serene. "The wheel cares not for what you believe. It has chosen you because you carry the knowledge and vision needed for what is to come."

Rajeev opened his mouth to protest, but the words died as the artifact's glow intensified. His gaze was drawn back to the Chakra, which now pulsed with a brilliance that filled the chamber. Without realizing it, his hand reached out, brushing the cool surface.

The moment his fingers touched the wheel, a searing pain shot through his body. He staggered back, clutching his chest, as a cascade of images flooded his mind.

He saw a young man rallying a crowd in a dusty village square, shouting words of defiance against the British Raj. He saw a battlefield strewn with bodies, the air thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the cries of the wounded. He saw a tricolor flag rising against the backdrop of a burning sky.

The visions swirled, faster and faster, until they coalesced into a single image: the Chakra spinning endlessly, its spokes radiating light.

"What… what's happening to me?" Rajeev gasped, his voice barely audible.

The old man's voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "You are being unbound from the shackles of time. It is not linear, Rajeev. It is a wheel, ever turning. And now, you are at its center."

The chamber dissolved around him. The hum became a roar, the light blinding. Rajeev felt himself falling, not through space but through time itself. Voices filled his ears, some familiar, others ancient and unknown. His body felt weightless, yet his mind was heavy with the weight of countless lives.

---

When Rajeev awoke, he was no longer in the ruins of Nalanda. The air was different—heavier, tinged with smoke and dust. He was lying on a coarse cot in a dimly lit room. His head throbbed, and his body felt foreign, as though it didn't belong to him.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through his ribs. A young woman in a simple saree rushed to his side. Her face was etched with worry, her dark eyes scanning him for injuries.

"Aryan, thank the gods! You're awake. We thought the British soldiers had killed you."

Aryan? Rajeev frowned, the name unfamiliar yet oddly resonant. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry.

"Here, drink this," the woman said, pressing a clay cup to his lips. The water was cool and slightly metallic, but it eased the tightness in his throat.

As his senses returned, Rajeev looked around the room. It was sparse, with peeling walls and a single flickering lantern casting long shadows. A cracked mirror hung on one wall. Something compelled him to look at it.

He swung his legs over the cot and stood, ignoring the protests of his aching body. The face that stared back at him was not his own.

Gone were his neatly combed hair, glasses, and clean-shaven jaw. Instead, the mirror reflected a lean, dark-haired man with intense eyes and a faint scar running across his cheek.

He wasn't Rajeev Mehta anymore.

He was someone else.

---

The young woman's voice broke his daze. "Aryan, you shouldn't be up. You need rest."

"Aryan," he murmured, testing the name. Memories—not his own—began to surface. Snatches of a life filled with rebellion, clandestine meetings, and fiery speeches. He was Rishi Aryan, a revolutionary fighting for India's freedom in 1914.

The wheel of time had turned.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"You were leading the protest against the British tax collectors," the woman said. "They attacked, and you were hit. We barely managed to get you out alive."

Rajeev—no, Aryan—nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. The protest, the soldiers, the chase through the streets. He could feel it all as if it had happened moments ago. Yet, beneath it all, his modern mind wrestled with the absurdity of the situation.

He looked down at his hands. They were calloused, the hands of a laborer or a fighter, not a policy analyst. On his right palm, a faint, glowing symbol caught his eye—a spinning wheel, the Chakra of Eternity.

Before he could say anything, the door burst open, and a wiry young man rushed in. "Aryan! The soldiers are searching the area. We have to move now!"

The urgency in his voice left no room for questions. Aryan nodded, instinct taking over. As he grabbed a worn satchel and followed the young man out into the night, the weight of his new reality pressed down on him.

He was no longer Rajeev Mehta, a policy expert from 2024. He was Rishi Aryan, a revolutionary in the heart of British-occupied India.

And the fight for freedom was just beginning.