Rebirth of the Indian Chemist.

Velikara to Aranmula Foothills – 1711 CE

The journey began with a lie.

"We're just going to trade bamboo," I told Amma.

She frowned. "Bamboo doesn't require scrolls, extra ink, and three bags of salted tamarind."

"Emergency engineering," I said.

She stared. I smiled. She sighed.

Permission granted.

---

My companions were predictable:

Devika, self-appointed guardian of common sense and scroll security.

Bhairav, inventor of new ways to lose things and chief goat negotiator.

Stone, the goat, who insisted on joining and had a better nose for danger than any of us.

Our destination: the Ashoka grove in the hills near Aranmula, two days east of Velikara.

Why? Because a reincarnated engineer from 1947 told me to.

---

We walked for hours, crossing streams, dodging leeches, and arguing about mango theft.

"You ate three and left the skins in my scroll pouch," I snapped at Bhairav.

"You said it was for layers of wisdom."

"Mango peels aren't metaphorical!"

"They are if you believe."

Devika interrupted. "Stop fighting. Save your energy. We're not halfway."

"Are we close to dying?"

"Yes. Of irritation."

---

The first night, we stayed in a farmer's rest hut. I traded firewood advice for a roof. Bhairav tried to teach the goat chess with mango seeds. Stone won. I think.

Devika and I sat near the fire, unrolling maps and comparing the stars.

"What if it's gone?" she asked.

"The blueprint?"

"Yes. Buried. Burned. Forgotten."

"Then we learn from the search. That's half of discovery."

She looked at me sideways. "You're not just chasing knowledge. You're chasing legacy."

I blinked. "Is that a compliment?"

"No. It's a warning. Legacy burns."

I didn't reply. Because she wasn't wrong.

---

Day two was worse.

Bhairav got stung by something. We think it was emotional, not physical. He spent hours reciting poetry to his reflection in the river.

Devika nearly punched a local merchant who tried to sell her a "mountain-fresh scroll pouch" that was clearly cow leather.

I, meanwhile, kept scanning the hills, looking for trees with twisted trunks—the Ashoka grove.

We found it after sundown.

A ring of ancient Ashoka trees, roots tangled together like gossiping aunts, and silence so deep even Stone stopped chewing.

We entered slowly.

At the center: a stone platform, barely a foot tall, overgrown but deliberate. Carved onto it, symbols.

Modern ones.

I fell to my knees.

"This is it," I whispered.

Devika crouched beside me. "It's… math?"

"Encoded blueprint key. Acharyan's style. From his scroll diagrams."

Bhairav tapped the stone. "Does it open? Like a rice pot?"

"No. It's a code. Longitude, angle, weight ratio—it's pointing there." I turned.

Toward the hillside. A cave.

---

We lit torches and entered.

Inside: dry air. A slight smell of sandalwood. And on the walls—chalk diagrams.

So many. Labeled in Malayalam, Tamil, even faint English.

One said: "Wind Shaft Compression Lift."

Another: "Lime Stabilizer Road Mix – V.2.0."

Devika's eyes widened. "Is this… a lab?"

I nodded slowly. "A hidden engineer's sanctuary."

There was a box near the wall. Inside: scrolls. Dozens. Wrapped in oiled cloth.

Each one marked with a moon date.

"He left these for someone," I said. "For... me. For us."

---

We spent the next hour cataloguing.

Bhairav tried to make tea from cave moss. Devika forbade it.

I copied notes. Some inventions were decades ahead of their time. Others were perfect for now:

A treadle-powered rice thresher.

Salt condensing trays using concave mirrors.

Weather prediction rods based on fungus growth rate.

Practical. Scalable. Revolution-level knowledge.

Devika flipped through one titled Canal Defense: Hydraulic Barriers and Float-Trap Gates.

Her voice was quiet. "This… this could stop war elephants."

I nodded. "And ships. And floods."

She handed it to me. "Then we start here."

---

By midnight, we had a plan.

Hide the scrolls in a fake grain barrel. Return to Velikara. Begin building small. Prove viability. Gather allies.

The war for India's future wouldn't start with muskets. It would start with irrigation.

---

As we left the cave, I looked back once.

The Ashoka trees stood silent. The wind shifted.

And for a second, I thought I saw someone watching.

Old. Tall. Smiling.

Then gone.

---

Two days later, we returned.

Amma was waiting. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

"So," she said, "how was your bamboo?"

Bhairav opened his mouth. I kicked his shin.

"Long," I said. "Twisty. Very educational."

She didn't smile. But she handed me tamarind pickle.

Forgiveness. In Kerala, that's what it meant.

---

That night, under a sky full of monsoon-star confusion, I wrote the first line in a new journal:

> "Day One: A cave of futures. A girl of warnings. A goat of questionable judgment. The revolution begins."

I fell asleep smiling.

And I dreamed of roads.

Big ones.

Stone-carved.

Future-bound.