Legacy system
Chapter 1: Echoes of the Past
The crisp Shimla air, so different from the humid embrace of Kerala, nipped at Veda's skin. He tugged his worn leather jacket tighter, a memento from his university days, and quickened his pace.
He was eager to explore the hill station, a brief escape from the monotony of his life. Veda, a 27-year-old BSc Chemistry graduate, harbored a passion that burned brighter than any Bunsen burner – the ancient martial art of Kalaripayattu. Years of dedicated practice had honed his skills, the discipline a welcome counterpoint to the structured world of chemical formulas.
As he crossed a busy street, his thoughts drifted to the upcoming Kalaripayattu competition in Kerala. He visualized the fluid movements, the controlled aggression, the almost meditative focus it demanded.
Suddenly, a flash of scarlet and the screech of tires shattered his concentration. A bus, speeding recklessly, was upon him in an instant. Instinctively, he tensed, years of training taking over, but it was too late. The impact was violent, hurling him through the air. Darkness swallowed him whole.
When Veda regained consciousness, the world was utterly transformed. The cacophony of Shimla traffic was replaced by an unnerving silence, broken only by the whisper of wind through what sounded like pine trees. He lay on a cold, uneven floor, his body screaming in protest, a sharp pain throbbing in his head. He tried to sit up, groaning, and noticed his clothes were not his own. He was clad in a simple, rough tunic and dhoti, a stark contrast to his usual jeans and t-shirt.
Panic began to creep in. Where was he? What had happened? The last thing he remembered was the bus… He looked around the dimly lit room. It was sparsely furnished, with a low wooden table, a straw mat, and a small clay lamp flickering on the wall.
The room felt ancient, the walls constructed of roughly hewn stone.
As his eyes adjusted, he noticed a small, tarnished brass mirror hanging on the wall. He stumbled towards it, his reflection staring back at him with unfamiliar eyes. The face was his, yet subtly different. Younger, leaner, with a hint of innocence he didn't recognize. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was longer and tied back in a simple knot. He felt a strange sense of detachment, as if he were observing a stranger.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he sank onto the straw mat. As he lay there, fragmented images flickered through his mind – a bustling marketplace, a towering snow-capped mountain, a stern-looking man with a flowing white beard. Then, a name echoed in his thoughts: Veda Chandra. It was his name, yet it felt…foreign.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and a woman entered. She was dressed in simple, homespun clothes, her face etched with worry. "Veda Chandra, you are awake!" she exclaimed, rushing to his side. "Thank the gods! You have been unconscious for two days."
Two days? Veda stared at her, utterly bewildered. "Where am I?" he managed to croak out.
"You are in your home, in Chandra," she replied, her brow furrowed. "Don't you remember? You fell from your horse while returning from the fields."
Horse? Fields? Veda's mind reeled. This was all too surreal. He felt like he was trapped in a dream, a very vivid, very confusing dream.
As he lay there, his head throbbing, a torrent of memories, not his own, flooded his consciousness. It was like two streams merging, his present life in Shimla and another life, a life lived centuries ago, crashing together. He saw himself, not as the 27-year-old Veda, but as a 17-year-old boy, also named Veda Chandra, living in this very place.
He saw his father, a respected zamindar who controlled a ten-kilometer area, overseeing five thakurs who managed the land, collected taxes, and enforced the local laws. He remembered his father's recent death, the grief still raw. He saw his mother, who had passed away seven years ago, when he was just ten. He felt the weight of responsibility settle upon his young shoulders, the mantle of zamindar now his.
He saw the kingdom of Chamba, ruled by Raja Vidagdha Verman, a king more interested in pleasure than governance. He saw the corrupt court, the self-serving ministers, the burden of heavy taxes on the common people. He saw the rugged landscape of Lahaul and Spiti, the towering Himalayas, the fertile valleys.
The memories surged, vivid and intense, overwhelming his present-day consciousness. He was Veda Chandra, the Kalaripayattu master from Shimla, and he was Veda Chandra, the 17-year-old zamindar of Chandra. The two lives were intertwined, fused together in his mind. The pain in his head intensified, a physical manifestation of this mental collision.
He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of it all. He was a man out of time, his mind a battleground of two realities. He was Veda, the scientist, and Veda, the zamindar. He was a man of the 21st century, trapped in the 12th.
Suddenly, a distinct Ding echoed in his mind, as if a bell had been struck. A translucent blue screen materialized next to his right eye, shimmering faintly. Words appeared on the screen, written in a clear, concise font:
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