28/08/2018 01:00 PM
The wheels of Air India Flight AI 185 screeched against the tarmac. A collective jolt passed through the cabin. The usual chorus of sighs, seat belt clicks, and rustling luggage filled the air.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New Delhi…" the air hostess announced, her voice polite but mechanical. Rohan barely heard the rest. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest. He wasn't nervous. Not this time.
Outside the cabin window, the hazy lights of Delhi blinked through a dusty veil. The city looked the same—dense, loud, and dry—but to Rohan, it felt different.
As they exited the aircraft into the humid corridor, Arya clutched her mother's hand a little tighter, her eyes darting across the crowd. She didn't say anything, but her unease was plain—new sounds, unfamiliar air, too many people.
Veena forced a smile, though her posture was tense. She scanned the signs and corridors like someone walking back into a life they'd already left behind once. Her shoulders were rigid with worry. This was home, but it didn't feel like it yet.
Baggage claim was a blur. The airport smelled faintly of metal, sanitizer, and too many tired bodies in transit. Rohan handled most of the luggage while Veena kept Arya close. The customs officer barely looked up before waving them through.
Rohan stepped out into the dusty warmth of Delhi, exhaling slowly. The air was the same—thick, dry, choked with a cocktail of smoke and heat—but this time, it didn't paralyze him.
He glanced at his mother. Her eyes carried exhaustion, but when they met his, he smiled. Genuinely. She smiled back, holding it a second longer than usual.
As they exited the terminal, Rohan placed a hand on Arya's shoulder, pulling her into a side hug.
"Hey, don't worry," he murmured. "I'm here now. I'll make sure it's better this time."
Arya rolled her eyes, trying to smother a grin.
"Ugh, you sound like a budget superhero. What are you gonna do—beat poverty with your GPA?"
He laughed, flicking her forehead gently.
"Well, at least I have one."
Their light bickering continued until they spotted Ramchandra standing outside the station wagon, waving.
This time, Rohan didn't hesitate. He moved forward and hugged the old man tightly, arms firm—not for politeness, but because he meant it. Nanaji (maternal grandfather) patted his back awkwardly, clearly surprised.
"You've gotten taller," the old man said.
"You've gotten shorter," Rohan replied with a sly grin.
The ride from the airport to the railway station was subdued but not strained. The silence wasn't awkward anymore. Rohan filled the gaps with light conversation, sometimes nudging Arya into teasing exchanges, sometimes helping his mother organize the luggage. He noticed how her hands trembled less than he remembered.
When the train finally squealed into the platform—old, clunky, and noisy—Rohan didn't flinch. The dull roar of the engine, the shriek of the brakes, the slightly sticky air—it didn't overwhelm him. It was familiar now.
He hoisted the suitcase onto the berth with practiced ease, helping his mother and Arya settle in without complaint. He didn't even grimace when a child spilled mango juice near their seat.
Small changes. But they mattered.
At Sharma Niwas, the walls hadn't changed, but he had.
His aunt still grumbled when he offered to help with the dishes, but didn't stop him. His grandfather still chuckled at old political jokes, and this time, Rohan laughed with him—not to pretend he was okay, but because maybe, just maybe, he was starting to believe he could be.
Later that night, under the hum of a ceiling fan and the quiet of a sleepy town, Rohan lay down.
The moment his eyes shut, the world changed.
Rohan stood in a vast chamber—a place that defied gravity, logic, and architecture as he understood it.
This was the Library. The true form of it.
Books—trillions—floated in the air, suspended in elaborate spirals that rose into a void where no ceiling existed. Some spun slowly, others zipped between invisible waypoints, as if following a set of rules written into the fabric of time itself. Their bindings ranged from ancient leather to glowing crystal to translucent skins inscribed with light. No shelves. No dust. Just infinite knowledge in motion.
Above and below him, orbs of compressed information orbited silently. Some contained moving images, others emitted faint whispers—echoes of thoughts, civilizations, and philosophies long forgotten. The air smelled faintly of parchment, ozone, and something older than earth itself.
Rohan had been here before, briefly—but he had never seen it like this. Not in its full, overwhelming vastness. He stared upward and still couldn't find the edges.
Then, without warning, the air trembled. A low vibration pulsed beneath his feet.
"Initializing adaptive interface. Reconfiguring the environment to match the user profile: Rohan Ram."
The voice was monotonic, synthetic, and genderless. Cold and precise. Rohan barely had time to register what it said.
The books around him froze midair.
Then they twisted—no, collapsed—spiraling inward toward a singularity at the chamber's core. It was like watching a black hole birth itself: a controlled implosion of infinite information into a point of compressed light.
The ground beneath him rippled, constellations scattering and reforming.
Light exploded outward—soft but blinding—and when it faded…
The Library was gone.
Now, Rohan stood in a new space. Familiar in shape, alien in essence.
The floor shimmered like polished obsidian, embedded with faint star maps that glowed underfoot. The walls, smooth and metallic, shifted in gradient like living auroras. The air was breathable but subtly charged—like a mixture of temple incense and freshly cut grass.
Before him was a single-story structure, minimalist yet rich in hidden complexity. Its surface was matte white, trimmed with dark chrome, and a grid of solar panels hummed faintly atop its angular roof. Transparent walls flickered with internal systems, glowing glyphs scrolling like a living HUD. He entered the building.
To his left: a floating classroom, modular desks hovering in formation, and a smart board pulsing faintly—clearly responsive to thought. Shelves held data crystals etched with Sanskrit verses, numerical equations, and shifting code.
To his right: a kitchen pod—silent, obsidian black, with touch-sensitive panels and a self-prepping station that quietly materialized ingredients from nowhere.
Rohan stepped forward, fingers trailing along the cool, matte-black countertop that shifted under his touch—marble, but something more alive. The kitchen responded instantly. Panels unfolded like petals, revealing racks of utensils, cutting surfaces, spice infusers, and molecular cookers—all pristine, all perfectly organized.
It was equipped with everything he could possibly need.
More than a kitchen. A command centre for creation.
A little farther: a bathing chamber, flickered with beams of light that promised to clean not just dirt but fatigue from the soul itself.
And stretching into the open distance: a training ground. Something between a Zen garden and a VR simulation deck, the ground there subtly shimmered. Rohan could sense programs dormant within it—waiting to be summoned. Weapons. Terrains.
In the centre of the chamber, suspended above a wide pedestal, a holographic Earth rotated slowly, surrounded by a formation of miniature jet engines, glowing softly, orbiting it like guardians—or tools.
Rohan stared, breath caught in his chest.
This wasn't the ancient library anymore.
This was something else.
Something made for him.
A familiar voice broke the silence—dry, bored, and unmistakably superior.
"Ah, there he is. Sleeping Beauty finally decides to grace us with his presence."
Rohan turned to find DL, his divine AI handler, materializing beside the board, arms folded and eyebrows arched with digital disdain.
"Nice to see you too," Rohan muttered. "Didn't have much of a choice about the nap."
DL shrugged. "Free will is overrated. You humans always waste it anyway."
Rohan chuckled. "You're in a good mood."
"Relatively. Ready to disrupt a nation's defense sector before breakfast?"
Rohan blinked. "Wait, what?"
DL tapped the air. The smartboard lit up with maps, statistics, engine schematics, and geopolitical heat maps.
"Welcome to your first real lesson: Jet Engines and National Dreams."