When he returned to his chair, the distant temple bell tolled once more.
One… two… three…
It rang exactly seven times before Vijay rose slowly to his feet.
He moved toward the cupboard in the front of the room and retrieved his clothes: a black cotton shirt, black trousers, and a khaki belt. He dressed methodically.
"There's the interview today. But before I go home, I'll need to buy a few things for it…"
Adithan, whose memories and consciousness now pulsed within Vijay, felt no real anxiety about the interview. Once dressed, he walked to the side of his bed and lifted the square pillow. Beneath it was a small, concealed opening. He slipped his hand inside, fingers brushing against a middle layer until they closed around something solid.
When he withdrew his hand, a rolled-up bundle of notes lay in his palm.
They were of a faded green hue, about eight notes in total.
This was all the savings currently in Rasan's possession—money that had to last the next three days. Among them were two five-Baghoda notes (notes of silver value) and the rest, single Baghodas.
In the currency system of the Neithal Kingdom, the Baghoda was the second-tier currency, a relic from the old silver coinage.
One Baghoda = twelve Kazhanji (copper coins).
Above the Baghoda was the gold Pavan—also paper notes, but backed by gold.
One gold Pavan = twenty Baghodas.
Vijay unfolded one note. A faint, distinct ink scent rose from it.
This… this is the smell of money.
Whether it was due to the lingering fragments of Adithan's memories, or an irresistible avarice rising within him, at that moment, he felt something akin to love for these notes.
Look…
How beautiful this is!
Kattumustha Pandya, the third king, with those two moustaches… how regal he looks…
And the watermark—only visible when held against sunlight!
The anti-counterfeit design—it's nothing like those cheap forgeries!
He admired it for a full minute. Then he took two one-Baghoda notes. The rest he rolled up again and tucked back into the hidden compartment beneath the pillow. He smoothed the cloth, folded the taken notes, and placed them in his trouser pocket. That pocket already held a few Kazhanji coins; he added the notes to them.
Next, he slipped a key into his right pocket, picked up a dark brown paper bag, and strode purposefully toward the door.
Suddenly, a thought surfaced, giving him pause.
Adithan's suicide…
Was it really suicide?
If I just walk out like this… could there be danger?
After a moment's hesitation, he turned to the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a gleaming brass pistol.
This was the only protective weapon he could think of—and the only one with enough authority. He had never received formal training in shooting, but simply brandishing it should be enough to intimidate anyone. His fingers brushed the cold metal briefly before he carefully tucked it into the back waistband of his trousers, letting his shirt hang loose to conceal it.
Even with this precaution, a fresh worry nagged at him—the newcomer's fear of an accidental discharge.
A solution came to him. He took the pistol again, opened the cylinder, and emptied the chambers. If it fires by mistake now, it'll only click on empty chambers. Satisfied, he secured it again at his back, opened the door, and stepped out.
Leaving his colony, he began walking through the lanes. Though it was daytime, the path remained dim. The only light was a dull shaft falling from a window at the far end of the long corridor, perpetually stretching shadows ahead of him. As Vijay hurried down the staircase and passed through the apartment's outer door, he was abruptly engulfed in the warmth and glare of the sun.
Though July was approaching, Sikkal City, located in the northern part of the Neithal Kingdom, enjoyed a unique climate. Even in summer, the temperature rarely crossed thirty degrees. Mornings were still cool.
But the streets…
They were not clean. Dirty water, garbage, scattered debris—all combined to produce a bitter, pungent smell. From Adithan's memories, Vijay knew this was a common sight in poorer neighborhoods. There were drains, but there were more people. Life was a greater struggle. To live here, one had to tolerate the filth.
"Hot fried fish! Tasty fried fish!"
"Fresh castor soup! One bowl will keep you energetic all day!"
"Fish straight from the port! Five Kazhanji each!"
"Mutton soup and idiyappam—the perfect combo!"
"Conches! Conches! Conches!"
"Vegetables direct from the farms! Cheap! Bargain prices!"
The street echoed with the cries of itinerant vendors. Some people paused to compare prices and buy. Others—jobless and hurried—waved their hands dismissively and moved on.
Vijay took a deep breath of the air, thick with both foul and fragrant scents. He walked into the crowd with his head slightly bowed. In a place this crowded, thieves are inevitable. The unemployed, children starving—and the older ones who exploited them—were no strangers to this street.
Once he reached a slightly less congested spot, Vijay straightened his back, lifted his head, and looked ahead. By the roadside, a self-taught musician played a yaazh. The music—sometimes sweet, sometimes intense—floated on the air. Near him, a few children in tattered clothes, their faces pale from malnutrition, swayed and danced, lost in the melody, moving with a grace they invented in the moment. For that second, they looked like little kings and celestial beings.
A woman walked past them. Her skirt was soiled, her complexion sallow, her eyes lifeless. But the instant her gaze fell upon the dancing children, a faint light flickered within them.
Thirty years ago, she might have looked at me like that.
Vijay moved past her, turned into another lane, and stopped before "Aayaa Maavu Kadai"—Grandma's Flour Shop.
The shopkeeper was Paatti, Grandma Ulagam, well over seventy, her hair completely white, a perennial gentle smile on her face. From the earliest of Adithan's memories, she had been here, grinding and selling flour with the help of a steam-engine-powered mortar. Wheat, rice, millet flours were all available.
Paatti's nutritious flour and her peanut brittle… Ah, the taste!
Swallowing his saliva, Vijay smiled. "Ulagam Paatti, eight Kazhanji worth of wheat flour, please."
"Oh, Adithan," she said, smiling as she measured. "Hasn't Rasan returned yet?"
"Maybe in two or three days," Vijay answered vaguely. As she scooped the flour, she sighed softly.
"He's such a hardworking boy. He'll find a good wife." A hint of mischief touched her expression. "Things are looking up for you all now. You've graduated. You're a history student from Seethakkathi University~ You'll start earning soon. You shouldn't stay in this apartment forever. At the very least… you should have a place with its own bathroom."
Vijay forced a laugh. "Paatti, you're looking very young today."
If Adithan succeeds in the interview… he could become a lecturer at Sikkal University. Then… the family's life would change overnight.
In a gap between memories, a dream sprouted: a bungalow in the city's suburbs. Five or six rooms. Upstairs—a large balcony, two bedrooms. Downstairs—a dining room, living room, kitchen, bathroom, and a store room. It wasn't just a fantasy. A trainee lecturer at Sikkal University earned two gold Pavans a week. After training, it rose to three Pavans and ten Kazhanji. Rasan, after years of work, only made one Baghoda and ten Kazhanji weekly. Ordinary factory workers didn't even earn a full Baghoda.
The rent for a bungalow? Between nineteen Kazhanji and one Baghoda, eighteen Kazhanji.
"It's the difference between earning three or four thousand and earning fourteen or fifteen thousand…" Vijay muttered to himself.
But all of that depended on passing the interview. Sikkal… or maybe a job in Ithampadal. Other opportunities were scarce. Without connections, government jobs were unattainable. For history graduates, prospects were even fewer. Landlords, banks, industrialists—they rarely needed private tutors. Adithan's knowledge was fragmented at best.
"No, no," Paatti chuckled. "I am always young." As she spoke, she weighed the flour, poured it into Vijay's brown paper bag, and handed it over. "Nine Kazhanji."
"Nine Kazhanji?" Vijay was startled. "Wasn't it eleven just two days ago?" Last month it was fifteen.
"You have the Grain Act protests to thank for that," she said, shrugging. Vijay nodded slowly. Adithan's memories on this weren't complete. The Grain Act—meant to protect the price of domestic agricultural produce. Once prices reached a certain point, grain imports from southern nations like Erwadi, Mayakulam, and Keelakarai were restricted. So why were people protesting? He didn't dwell on it.
Careful not to reveal the concealed pistol, he cautiously took out the notes and coins and paid her. Three Kazhanji in change came back. He shoved them into his trouser pocket and took the bag.
His next target—the "Millet and Meat" market across the street. Maneka had mentioned it: millet gruel with boiled mutton. That's what he was here for.
At the intersection of Patharasu Street and Poovaara Street lay a municipal ground. Several tents were pitched there. Performers in strange, comical costumes were handing out pamphlets.
"Street-play performance tomorrow night!"
Vijay glanced at the pamphlets in others' hands. Maneka would definitely enjoy this… But how much are the tickets?
With that thought, he moved closer.
At that very moment—
"Would you like a pulse reading?"
A raspy female voice came from nearby.
Vijay turned, startled.
Before a narrow tent stood a woman in a long black robe, her face veiled and painted in red and yellow hues. Her eyes were a deep slate-blue. The colors on her face recalled the adornments of rural folk performers common here.
Adithan's instinct was to refuse immediately. No money for astrology now.
The woman smiled. "My pulse astrology is very precise."
"Pulse…" Vijay froze for a second.
That pronunciation… it was straight from the Ola scriptures of Earth!
Wait…
It suddenly struck him—how had Nadi Josiyam, pulse astrology, come to this world? It wasn't from the seven principal deities or some ancient tradition. Its inventor was Agathiyar, the then-ruler of the Dravidian Republic, one hundred and seventy years ago.
He had created the spirit-engine. Refined ship design. Overthrown monarchies. Been endorsed by the God of Craft. Then become the Republic's first king. Later, he annexed neighboring states, holding nations like Erwadi under protective control. The Neithal Kingdom, Erwadi, the Mayakulam Empire—all had bowed before Dravia. The Republic transformed into an Empire. Agathiyar declared himself "Emperor Caesar."
It was during his reign that the Temple of Craft received its first public divine revelation since the end of the Fifth Age. Afterwards, the God of Craft was renamed Mercury, God of Spirits and Machines. Nadi Josiyam was also Agathiyar's invention. The very design of the modern Ola scrolls was his creation.
All this was familiar to Vijay. And more—the fleets Agathiyar sent had discovered sea routes past storm-wrapped oceans to the southern continent, initiating the colonial era.
But… in his old age, he was betrayed. In the year 1198 of the Fifth Age, the Eternal Flame Surya Temple, the former royal Asura family, and several landlords conspired and killed him. He died in the White Maple Palace.
He was deified.
These memories flashed through Vijay's mind in a single breath. He pressed a hand to his forehead. Agathiyar… what a pioneer, reshaping the world. With that thought came a sudden, keen desire to see his pulse-reading method firsthand.
Channeling Adithan's hesitation, Vijay asked, "The price… if it's reasonable, I'll consider it."
The woman laughed immediately. "Sir, you don't worry today karthikai So—it's free."
---
Author's Note:
This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to existing novels, characters, or events is unintentional and coincidental. All characters, scenes, and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are not intended to infringe upon any copyrights.