The bike hummed beneath them, a quiet echo against the morning mist that clung to their skin and blurred the world into watercolor. Rudra rode with steady hands, his knuckles pale on the handlebars, while Niya pressed close behind, her camera slung across her shoulder, her silence louder than words. The air tasted faintly of dew and distant woodsmoke. They left Panvel before sunrise, the jungle still dreaming, the sky still holding its breath, and every shadow seemed to carry a secret.
They didn't speak much. The road curved like memory—past mango orchards, old temples swallowed by vines, and milestones faded by rain and time. Rudra's sketchbook rested in his bag, feeling heavier with unsketched thoughts that flitted through his mind like restless birds. Niya's fingers tapped a rhythm against the seat, a secret beat that echoed her unspoken questions, her gaze darting to the shifting patterns of sunlight on the road. Both carried the weight of an unvoiced agenda: the ruins of Korlai, owned long ago by the once-mighty Veeraj, were calling to them, promising answers and awakening old longings.
Korlai arrived like a whisper, emerging from the mist as if conjured by memory. Not merely a village, but a remnant of the past, where echoes of history mingled with the salty sea breeze and the distant cry of gulls. The fort, with its crumbling walls and tangled vines, stood sentinel over the restless waves. The sea shimmered beyond the fort, glinting like old memories under the morning sun. The trail curved toward the ledge, as if inviting them to step into the chapters of lost stories, each stone steeped in longing and the hush of forgotten footsteps.
They parked near a grove of ancient trees, the cool air sharp and invigorating, filling their lungs with anticipation that tingled beneath their skin. Meghraj had come ahead—his hooves silent on the leaf-strewn earth, his breath steady and visible in the chill. He waited near the spiral stone, ears pricked, eyes watching with a quiet intelligence, as if sensing something profound in the air—a hush that spoke of old pacts and lingering spirits.
A sixteen-year-old boy stood nearby, barefoot, dust caking his knees. He turned the folded leaf in his hand—a simple trophy—between his fingers with an absent tenderness, as if it were a talisman against the mysteries gathering around them.
Rudra slowed, his heart picking up a curious rhythm, each beat echoing in his ears. Niya raised her camera, then hesitated, lowering it as uncertainty flickered across her face—unsure if the moment was meant to be captured or simply lived, raw and unfiltered.
"You're from here?" Rudra asked, breaking the silence.
The boy nodded, his gaze steady and filled with an unyielding innocence. "I saw the black horse. I followed."
"What's your name?" Niya asked, her voice gentle, coaxing out the threads of connection.
"Manu," he replied, the name echoing softly in the air. Not loud. Just enough to awaken curiosity.
Can You take us to the site of a ruined fort nearby.
"Yes"
They walked together toward the collapsed fort, each step trailing the whispers of history, the crunch of gravel underfoot blending with the slow sigh of the sea. Manu didn't speak much, but when they reached the broken wall, he began to hum—a verse low and ancient, resonating like a heartbeat against stone and memory, threading the present to the distant past
Rudra turned, captivated. "Where did you learn that?"
""Ajji sings it," Manu said, his eyes going distant for a moment, gaze fixed on something only he could see. "I don't know the words. Just the feeling." His voice carried a depth that hinted at stories untold—a bridge to a past veiled in mystery, the ache of memory lingering in every note.
"Can we meet her?" Niya asked, her curiosity piqued, the photographer in her eager to capture the essence of this place through both lens and lore.
The boy hesitated, as if weighing the significance of such a meeting. "If you want to know about the fort, you must. She remembers Veeraj. She knows the stories buried here."
Rudra felt a thrill at the mention of Veeraj, the legendary figure whose legacy intertwined with the very stones of the fort. There was a sense of purpose igniting in him, a longing to uncover the secrets that had faded into the shadows of time. "What stories?" he pressed.
Manu looked at the ruins, his face a mixture of reverence and nostalgia. "Stories of bravery, of love, and of loss. The fort was not just a stronghold; it was home to dreams and fears. Ajji says Veeraj once saved the village from invaders. His courage lives in these walls."
Niya's heart raced at the thought, her breath shallow with anticipation. The ruins before them were not merely remnants of stone; they were vessels of human experience, saturated with longing, fear, and hope, waiting to be understood. She imagined her camera capturing the essence of the past—not just images, but the echoes of laughter, grief, and courage—preserving these fragile stories for those who would come after.
As they continued toward the fort's entrance, the morning sun broke through the clouds, casting golden shafts that danced across the fractured stones beneath their feet. The air warmed, carrying the scent of salt and wildflowers. Each step felt like a bridge to the past, a reminder that every whisper of memory had its roots in the heart of the present. Together, they ventured forward, each cradling questions and hopes, nerves tingling with anticipation for the stories waiting just beyond the crumbled walls of Korlai.
In that moment, with the echoes of ancient verses and forgotten footsteps swirling around them, they stood on the threshold of discovery. The air seemed charged with possibility, as if the stones themselves were holding their breath. They were ready to unravel the tapestry that connected them all—the living history of a place as much a part of their souls as they were of it.