The Book, English short story

“You mean they are completely without letters?” Hariprasad frowned, his brow furrowing with skepticism.

“Indeed. Entirely letterless charts.” Sudhir’s face bore a secretive smile as sunlight sliced through the windowpane, splashing across the polished wooden table’s surface.

Hari rose from his chair and lit a cigarette. “Then book two berths on the Hampi Express for tomorrow night.”

And so the journey began.

____________

I know we’re heading nowhere. Hari is being foolish—he’ll never find that Ayurvedic Pundit. We’re motorcycling through Hampi’s muddy roads, past crumbling temples and ancient rocks. At last, we reach Ganagitti Temple. There he sits at the right entrance, caught in that mystical moment where three periods of the day converge—Sandhyakala, the evening twilight.

We approach him together.

He appears to be around forty-five, wearing gray pants and a weathered shirt. Beside him sits a small kerosene stove and a steel cup. Two miniature mud pyramids rest at his feet.

“So, we meet again after five months,” he says softly, his Telugu accent evident. Hari settles himself near a broken elephant trunk carving while I take a seat opposite. Hari makes the introductions.

His name is Ramesh, an Osmania University postgraduate from 1983. “My English is at least eighteen years old,” he says with a knowing grin.

Hari glances my way while I study the transistor radio behind Ramesh.

“I listen to the Theerthankaras. They dwell here. If your perception is keen enough, you can see them. They’re all around us.”

My heart silently protests—this cannot be true. Yet Hari accepts it readily; I can see the belief in his eyes.

“We’re here on an important mission. Please tell us if we’ll succeed.”

“What time is it?” he asks.

“5:35 pm.”

He pauses. His eyes are impossibly sharp—so piercing I can barely meet his gaze.

Suddenly, memories flood my mind: my fourth-grade teacher, my days in Nagara where Hyder Ali once ruled, my wanderings through his Bidanur Fort, the lingering scent of greenery.

“You will meet a teacher,” he pronounces. “Your work will be forty percent complete. But exercise caution—do not enter into any contract with him.”

Mere bluffing, I think, yet Hari believes every word. Two years ago, he had brought another friend here. “Ramesh had looked deep into his eyes,” Hari had told me, “and declared: ‘You are a womanizer.'” It had been true then, but how could this prediction also ring true?

Hari winks at me, and I steer the conversation toward the Indus Valley civilization. I mention my published book on the subject, explaining how Professor Natwar Jha had deciphered the Indus scripts—proving definitively they were Sanskrit, not Tamil or Kannada.

“The pictures trouble me, sir,” Ramesh interjects unexpectedly.

“During my doctoral research on Indus Scripts at the University, the seal images began speaking to me. They transmitted curious messages. Sometimes they would dance in the hazy morning light. When I explained this to my guide, I was dismissed—branded mentally unstable. Do I still appear deranged after eighteen long years?”

Ramesh speaks without remorse, his attention fixed on two birds perched on the fence opposite the entrance.

He apologizes for not offering tea, explaining that he subsists on a hot herbal infusion that keeps him alert and satiated. Nevertheless, he admits to enjoying a plate of Poori-Sagu at the Kamalapur canteen. He charges one hundred fifty rupees for palmistry consultations, he tells us, and maintains the pyramids for communicating with angels and deities.

Hari decides to spend the night on the temple’s side platform beside Ramesh, excited by the rare opportunity to hear more of his experiences. According to Hari, Ramesh possesses deep knowledge of Hampi—a city not in ruins but teeming with living gods and sages.

Darkness descends, reducing us to black silhouettes against a slightly lighter background. A bicycle bell rings in the distance, accompanied by the rattle of a bullock cart and the eerie drone of insects.

“You’re welcome to sleep here, Hari, but heed this warning: Nagins dwell here. I’ve been here four years, and they’ve largely ignored me. However, you’re both newcomers.”

Silently, I wonder about Hari’s state of mind. A shiver courses through my body, though the evening isn’t particularly cold.

We pack up our belongings. Ramesh thanks us for the company.

Our journey, it seems, is taking shape.

—

Exploring Hospet proves less than enchanting. It’s a city of architectural contradictions—modern hotels stand alongside decades-old houses.

Hari stops at a particular house belonging to Narayanarao, a postgraduate lecturer at a local college.

Indeed, Ramesh was right—he is a teacher.

“I wrote this as a dissertation,” he says, handing me a stack of white papers. The title mentions something about “The Scientific Importance of Siribhuvalaya.”

I’m familiar with this—alchemy features prominently in the book, though no successful implementation has ever been documented. The lecturer’s work appears purely academic. We take our leave.

The tea, at least, was strong.

—

Legend holds that Sage Vidyaranya mastered alchemy, transmuting base metals into gold to establish the Vijayanagara Kingdom. Historical records confirm that precious metals were openly traded in the streets, measured in standardized vessels.

—

Pandurangaiah resembles a wrestler with his impressive mustache. His clinic operates behind his residence.

He maintains strict privacy during patient consultations. When we arrive, he’s speaking with Muslim women—a testament to his practice’s secular nature, modernity, and cultural richness through Ayurvedic medicine.

He offers us folding chairs while we observe him treating a child, scolding the family for dietary non-compliance—typical of Indian patients, he suggests.

“I came so close to transmuting mercury into gold,” he reveals, “yet ultimate success eluded me.”

“But you followed Siribhuvalaya’s formulae?” I probe.

“Indeed. When the color was perfect, the consistency was wrong. When the solid form matched gold, the color wasn’t right.”

Pandurangaiah represents our best lead in unlocking Siribhuvalaya’s secrets. Time grows short; my curiosity demands answers.

“I even made a fortunate mistake that produced a luminous bottle,” he continues.

In the fifties, he conducted alchemy experiments in his Pavagada upstairs rooms, transforming the space into a makeshift laboratory. During a wedding celebration, he had to clear away his equipment.

By chance, he combined two chemicals in a bottle. A week later, he discovered the mixture glowing brilliantly—so bright that farm workers used it for illumination during night work.

Pandurangaiah never understood the bottle’s mysterious properties. He describes other experiments, including his desperate journey to Ranebennur seeking Nagarjuna’s legendary alchemy site.

“Look here,” he says, opening his mouth to reveal toothless gums. “My family forcibly removed my teeth to prevent proper mantra recitation.”

My heart silently weeps—the truth remains elusive.

Our journey continues without end.

—

Magadi exists as a mere suburban area of Bangalore—a village where cybercafes and chai stalls stand side by side. I guide my car along the dusty road. Shankarappa awaits us at his home, while Hari barely contains his impatience. We leave our footwear outside the main door.

“Examine these charts. Ramappa created them after studying Siribhuvalaya for ten years.” Shankarappa has preserved these documents for three decades with unwavering dedication. Though neither he nor his family members understand Siribhuvalaya’s contents, he has meticulously maintained all of Ramappa’s research in plastic sheets. Hari’s eyes widen with wonder. The household members observe us intently as we sit cross-legged on a mat.

Before us lies a ledger-sized volume—the legendary book we’ve awaited. Eighty-six chapters stretch across its pages, though Prasad had mentioned only fifty-three chapters deciphered by his father, Madhava Shastry.

Ramappa’s lucid Kannada script flows across the pages, his interpretations extending to opposing pages—identical to Madhavashastry’s book.

Who, then, is the authentic researcher? Both families possess copyright documentation.

My gaze drifts to the album: Ramappa with his award-winning bullock, with his family, with Kempegowda—Bangalore’s founder. Ramappa, the wrestler.

Then, jarringly, there’s Ramappa in death—garlanded, his body appearing scorched, the familiar smile forever absent.

“Ramappa consistently warned against pursuing Siribhuvalaya’s alchemical formulas. Yet one day, he began experimenting. He acquired mercury and sulfur. For five weeks, he isolated himself at his farm.

“Time ceased to matter. Days and nights blurred together. He forgot to eat. His world contracted to Siribhuvalaya, his notebook, and the furnace—along with chemicals whose names remained mysterious to us. One day, mercury fumes overcame him. Though we rushed him to the hospital, he died that very night.”

Evening shadows lengthen as a power cut plunges us into dimness. We gaze into the flower yard, sensing approaching rain. Time to depart—Ramappa’s secrets remain beyond our reach.

We embarked on this journey seeking simple truths. Our goal seemed straightforward.

Instead, we find ourselves lost on uncertainty’s winding path.

—

In Udupi, Sudhir’s uncle practices Ayurvedic medicine, operating a laboratory specializing in skin treatment. Their conversations range across politics, religion, extrasensory perception, and mystical abilities. His uncle speaks of a friend exploring advanced yoga practices—one who can visualize distant events through meditation.

“Sudhir, Siribhuvalaya captured my interest when I chose alchemy for my dissertation. Something lies hidden within its pages, though twenty-seven years of study haven’t revealed it. However, a colleague discovered Pushpa Ayurveda—a medical treatise using fallen flowers, aligned with Jain principles of non-violence.”

Perhaps he speaks truth, or perhaps he grasps only partial understanding. Yet sincerity radiates from him.

We spend three days discussing not just the book but life and death’s philosophy. He captivates us with his research, referencing solidified mercury near Gadag and recounting tales of a fakir’s metallurgical wisdom.

—

Delhi’s summer bleaches the city white. While others seek refuge from the heat, we find ourselves in the National Archives Director’s cool office. British architecture surrounds us—a fireplace now houses books instead of flames. The aged director studies our ministerial letter of introduction. “You’re here to examine Siribhuvalaya’s originals?” Official influence commands respect in these halls.

His deputy guides us to the manuscript floor—a vast space where researchers pore over documents. A Kannada-speaking clerk awaits our arrival.

“The manuscripts.” He gestures toward massive volumes, their pages yellowed by time.

Before us lie four volumes of Siribhuvalaya manuscripts. Demy-sized sheets, both handwritten and typed. A quote from Dr. S. Radhakrishnan, then President of India, declares it the eighth wonder of the modern world. Yet why has Siribhuvalaya faded from memory?

—

I recall how Madhava Shastry died in New Delhi. Wealthy Jain merchants sought alchemical knowledge from the book. His death came mysteriously—his body discovered cold and rigid.

Is our journey reaching its conclusion?

—

I can endure the sadness and bitter memories. I can bury the enmity, hatred, and greed. I can walk life’s ordinary path—days filled with routine: food, work, sleep. Yet still it haunts me.

—

The book rests on my roof shelf, safely sealed in plastic—470 sheets weighing seven kilograms, acquired at considerable expense. Who can unlock its mysteries?

Each reader interprets the book differently. All sought to decipher its formulas, to create gold. All failed. What fate befell those who truly discovered these sutras? Did they share similar ends?

—

Now I turn to the bansuri—Hindustani classical flute. My master taught me proper holding technique for this most natural of instruments, requiring only breath and fingertips to create music. Though I cannot yet produce perfect swaras, and my electronic shruti box lacks my master’s precision, it suffices. Better than those days consumed by Siribhuvalaya.

In early morning, I sit on my rented house’s terrace in this suburban area where flute practice disturbs no one. Sometimes what begins as noise transforms into pure musical notes.

The flute’s lightness comforts me.

Why did I wander those paths? Why seek such people? Research into that most secret book—for what? What discoveries resulted? Nothing but faces of the dead and living dead. This book drives seekers to madness.

Siribhuvalaya represents an ocean of knowledge, yet none successfully swim its depths.

It creates its own virtual world, requiring neither computer nor internet. This ancient artifact generates both wonder and terror.

—

I remember now. In Udupi’s bus station, uncle’s perspiring face seemed to look beyond physical reality. Over tea at the corner shop, he spoke:

“Siribhuvalaya doesn’t teach literal alchemy. It reveals the transformation of human beings into diamond-like entities—strong, brilliant, illuminated.

“One becomes impervious to emotional manipulation. Inner thoughts remain protected. One embodies a diamond’s qualities with a heart of purest gold. Nothing more, nothing less. Trust this truth…”

The bus conductor’s whistle thrust us onto another path, another journey.

—

Sixty-four characters form Kannada’s alphabet, twenty-six suffice for English, but just seven consonants create endless musical possibilities—streams flowing with joy, emotion, passion, and eternal truth.

—

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s voice soars:

*Teri Main Ishq Ne Nachaya*

*Wai Kadi Thaya Thaya Wai*

Within the qawwali, Rag Desh emerges. Such compassionate rendering—I float like a leaf on an endless pond.

*Aadmi Aadmi Se Milta Hi*

*Dil Magar Kam Kisi Se Milta Hi*

Abeeda Parveen’s Pakistani ghazal moves me to tears:

*Bhool Jaata*

*Hu Mai Sitam Uske*

*Woh Kuch Se Sadgi Se Milta Hi*

#END#