The first rays of dawn gently brushed across the horizon when Prabhas jolted awake, his forehead beaded with sweat. His heart pounded as fragments of a strange dream still echoed through his mind. It was said since ancient times, a dream, dreamt in the early morning often comes true. His breath steadied as he sat on the edge of his bed, the silence of his room wrapping around him. He glanced at the drawer on his side table, half-expecting the mysterious photograph to have vanished like the mist of his dream. But no, it lay there, untouched, still and silent, holding within it some secret that waited to be unraveled.
Prabhas freshened up mechanically, his mind far away, trapped in the vividness of what he had seen. He stepped out of his house, dressed for school, but his thoughts spun in endless loops around his father's words from last night and the woman in his dream, Arundhati. Her name alone stirred something old and inexplicable in his soul. The morning was quiet, the air thinner than usual, as Prabhas entered the sleek corridors of his futuristic school. Walls glimmered faintly with embedded circuits; the entire building thrummed like a living organism made of metal and light.
Today, history class was unlike any other. The robots usually assigned to teach historical archives had been reassigned to a robotics workshop. In their absence, the authorities appointed Prabhas to substitute as the history teacher. Ironically, history was the last thing on his mind. His head was a storm of questions about the dream and his father's strange request. He walked into the class where students were already waiting, seated in disciplined rows, their faces blank but curious.
Their eyes followed him, a human, not a machine. None of them had ever attended a history class led by a real person before. For years, robotic teachers had controlled the rhythm of their education. Seeing someone like Prabhas was… unsettling.
He could feel the weight of their stares. His chest tightened. For a moment, he wanted to walk out. But then, something shifted in him. Maybe, just maybe, this was the perfect moment to speak, not about the lifeless facts of war stored in robotic databases, but about something far more alive. He stood before them and said softly, "My students, are you tired of listening to history through machines? Would you like to hear the story of someone like me… someone who once walked this earth as a human?"
A ripple went through the room. Students looked at one another, puzzled yet intrigued. One of the girls raised her hand and asked, "Sir, who are you?" Prabhas smiled faintly. "Today, the robots who usually teach you history are on another assignment. So, I'll be your teacher. And I'll tell you a different kind of history, one that is not in your syllabus but written in the blood and soil of our past."
Prabhas walked to the whiteboard. In this age, no one used it anymore. Projectors and AI holo-screens had replaced everything. But today, he picked up a black marker and began to draw. He sketched trees, wild forests, mountains, and primitive figures of men with sticks in their hands. Then, carefully, he drew the evolution of humans, from an ape to a fully formed person. The students gasped. The sound of the marker scratching the board was alien to them, almost ancient. They stared at the drawings as though witnessing magic.
"This," Prabhas began, pointing to the board, "is how it all began. Long before Androids, Tabs, or any of the gadgets you know, humans communicated by drawing. This method is called writing." He paused to let it sink in. "Our ancestors didn't have processors. They didn't have AI to think for them. They learned to survive. This,"he tapped the board,"was their language." Students leaned forward in awe.
"These creatures," Prabhas continued, "were called humans. They lived inside forests, surrounded by other living beings that helped them breathe. That help came from something called oxygen." The word oxygen hung in the air like a ghost from another era. None of the students had ever breathed it. The world they lived in had long lost the luxury of fresh air.
"Because of oxygen and the changing climate, humans evolved. They traveled in search of food,not the nutrient pills you take now. Real food, plants, fruits, grains. And as they adapted, they became people like me."
He turned toward Akshatha and Aparajita, two curious girls in the front row. "There were two kinds of people. Some looked like me, others like you." Their eyes widened, the room fell silent. He explained the different evolutionary stages drawn on the board, their history forgotten by time but breathing again through his voice. The bell rang, breaking the spell. "I hope," he said, closing the marker, "you found this more interesting than war statistics." The class erupted in whispers. For the first time, history had felt real.
As students packed their bags and left, Akshatha and Aparajita remained seated.mSir," Akshatha said softly, "can you… tell us more?" Prabhas smiled gently. Their curiosity warmed him. "If you really want to know more, go to the E-Library. Search the archives about the Lost Eras. If you succeed in finding what's hidden… I'll tell you the rest." They agreed eagerly. Yet beneath their excitement lay something else, a quiet unease they couldn't name. Perhaps because deep down, they knew they were walking into unknown history.
Later that evening, the sky turned a coppery gold. Prabhas sat at home with a cup of synthetic coffee, his mind still tangled with questions. His father, Ramakanth, entered the room, his face sharp with expectation. "So," Ramakanth asked, "have you decided?" Prabhas stared at his father. Memories of last night flashed before his eyes. The whisper of the dream. Arundhati's voice.
"Father," he began carefully, "I don't know how I can help you find the past. But Arundhati… she said I must help you. Only then can I give her soul a body." Ramakanth's eyes softened, relief washing over his tired face. "So you've agreed," he whispered. "Yes," Prabhas said, voice firm. "I don't know if what you're doing is right or wrong. But I want to understand. And as your son, I can't let you die with regret." A rare smile flickered across Ramakanth's face. He stood and gestured for Prabhas to follow.
In the dimly lit warehouse behind their house, covered under thick black cloth, was a glass sphere that seemed ordinary at first glance. But when Ramakanth lifted the cover, a soft, pulsating glow filled the room. He placed his hand gently over the sphere and began chanting ancient Sanskrit shlokas. The ball responded, light burst out like liquid silver, splashing against the large white wall. The warehouse transformed into a theater of the past. Images shimmered to life. And then… the story began.
A War Forgotten
"1123 A.D."
Blood. It covered the battlefield like a crimson sea. Broken swords lay beside lifeless bodies. Horses, once majestic, now lay still. The sun dipped low, staining the sky with fiery orange as vultures circled above. On a massive plateau, groups of men huddled together. But one figure stood alone, his cape whipping in the wind. He stared at the blood-stained earth, grief heavy in his chest. Tears glimmered in his eyes. A soldier approached him.
"Your Majesty," the soldier said solemnly, "how long will this war continue? We have already lost countless men to the King of Beasts. Perhaps it's time to make peace with him." The old man, an emperor, turned slowly. His face bore the weight of a thousand storms. "As the emperor of heaven and earth," he said gravely, "it is my duty to protect my people. I will speak to the King of Beasts. No more blood shall fall."
The council discussed strategies, desperate to find a way to stop the war. Then, the emperor returned to his palace, a magnificent structure carved into the mountains, its golden spires touching the sky. When he removed his mask inside the chamber, both Prabhas and Ramakanth gasped. The emperor looked exactly like Ramakanth.
The vision continued. A woman entered the emperor's chamber. She moved gracefully, her presence commanding respect. When the light fell upon her face, Prabhas froze. She looked exactly like his dead mother. The emperor took a deep breath and called his son forward. The boy's face, too, bore a resemblance to Prabhas.
"We will sign the peace treaty," the emperor said to them. "The King of Beasts must understand, we do not wish for war. Only harmony." The image blurred. The scene faded into darkness, leaving only silence and the steady pulse of the glowing sphere.Prabhas stepped back, his mind spinning.His father looked at him, his eyes gleaming with something ancient. "Now you see, Prabhas. This is not just history. This is our past."
Prabhas felt a chill crawl down his spine. Could it be possible that his family had lived before? That the emperor, his father, and this mysterious war were somehow linked to him? "Father," he whispered, "what does this mean?" Ramakanth placed a hand on his shoulder. "It means, my son, that your dreams… are memories."The glass sphere dimmed, leaving them in silence.
Outside, night fell over the futuristic city, unaware that somewhere inside a quiet warehouse, the past had just whispered its first secret.