It is the year 2010. The world is changing rapidly, but for David Antony, time seems to have frozen in a loop of syllabus papers and mock tests.
David is a 24-year-old man desperately trying to carve a path into the Indian Administrative Services. He is not just chasing a job; he is chasing a lifeline. Hailing from a middle-income family in a quiet town in South India, he carries the weight of unspoken expectations on his shoulders. He holds a three-year Science degree in Agriculture — a subject he chose for its practicality but one that has offered him little solace in the cutthroat world of competitive exams.
He has already attempted the Civil Services Examination twice. In both attempts, the outcome was a crushing silence; he couldn't even get past the preliminary examination round to see his name on the qualifying list. The failures sit in his gut like cold stones.
His father is a small-time businessman, a man whose hands are roughened by decades of dealing with fertilizers, seeds, and agriculture-related products. His mother is a high school teacher, a woman of discipline who believes education is the only exit strategy from mediocrity. After completing his degree, the pressure to "settle" began to mount. To escape the suffocating pity of his neighbors and relatives, David moved to Hyderabad to study with his close friend from college, Ajith Tejas, who is also attempting to become a civil servant.
Hyderabad in 2010 is a city of dust, construction, and dreams. It is a place where old minarets cast shadows on rising cyber towers. David lives in the heart of the student hub, Ashok Nagar, a chaotic ecosystem of coaching centers, tea stalls, and anxious young men.
"Hey Ajju, are you going down now?" David asks, his voice muffled by foam.
He is standing in front of a cracked mirror in their shared bathroom, brushing his teeth with aggressive determination. He stares at his reflection, imagining himself sitting before the formidable UPSC interview board. He scrubs harder. He doesn't want to show them a yellow smile and lose marks on presentation, even though the interview is a distant dream that will only happen after qualifying two grueling rounds of written exams.
It is six in the morning. The air is already tepid, promising a scorching afternoon. Outside, the city is waking up; the distant hum of auto-rickshaws and the whistle of pressure cookers drift through the window. Food is available in the PG hostel mess for those who want to go to work or coaching centers in the early hours. The smell of fermented dosa batter and sambar hangs heavy in the hallway.
"Yeah, I will eat and go to the center. I have an early class on Polity today." Ajith is pulling on a crisp shirt, moving with a frenetic energy that David lacks this morning. Ajith is enrolled in a prestigious coaching institute, paying fees that make David wince. "You should come. The faculty is good."
"I can't afford the fees, Ajju. Self-study is fine for now," David replies, rinsing his mouth. "I'll stick to the plan."
"Okay, see you in the afternoon then." Ajith grabs his bag, checks his Nokia phone, and hurries out, knowing that David is only going to the library.
"See you."
David finishes his morning routine, splashing cold water on his face to wash away the lingering drowsiness of a restless night. He dresses simply — a faded polo shirt and jeans — and goes to the dining hall.
Today I must revise World History, he tells himself, mentally organizing his schedule as he chews on a slightly rubbery idli. And I also need to think about some way to earn pocket money.
The thought sours his breakfast. He can't always rely on Papa for his expenses. Every time he asks for a money transfer, he hears the hesitation in his father's voice, the silent calculation of household budgets being stretched thin. Although David is diligent in his studies, spending twelve hours a day with his nose in books, he has never tried to work part-time or full-time anywhere. The fear that a job would distract him from the IAS goal has paralyzed him, but the guilt of dependency is becoming a heavier burden.
In the cafeteria, the boxy TV in the corner is blaring the news. It is replaying yesterday's report on a massive earthquake in the Ring of Fire region near Japan. The visuals of shaking buildings and panicked crowds feel distant, a world away from the slow, humid reality of Hyderabad.
After finishing his breakfast, David takes his heavy canvas bag, packed with notebooks and pens, and walks out into the sunlight. He is staying in a colony consisting mostly of buildings converted into PG hostels; it is a ghetto of aspirants. From there, he walks to the bus stop to catch the RTC bus to the library.
The bus ride is a battle in itself. Packed with office-goers smelling of talcum powder and sweat, the vehicle lurches through the congested traffic. David manages to find a foothold near the door, clutching the railing as the bus navigates the chaotic roads. He watches the city pass by — billboards advertising English speaking courses and government job guarantees blur into a colorful smear.
He finally arrives at the Central Library, a sanctuary of silence amidst the city's noise. It is a grand, imposing structure, its high ceilings and rows of wooden tables smelling of old paper and dust. He is a daily reader here, a fixture as permanent as the furniture. He knows the rhythm of the place, the faces of the regulars, and all the staff members. Outside, on the stone steps, people are sitting around smoking cigarettes, and old men are arguing over politics while reading newspapers.
David enters the cool, dimly lit interior.
"Hi, Baskar sir, how are you?" Politeness is the way to get things done in any government establishment, a lesson David learned early.
"Fine, David. You are early today. It's good that you are early; otherwise, you would have had to sit outside on the plastic chairs." Baskar is the assistant librarian, a man in his late forties with thick glasses and a weary expression. He sits behind a massive wooden desk, guarding the register like a gatekeeper.
"I came early, so of course I will sit inside." David smiles, leaning in closer to the desk, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Baskar sir, recommend me some World History books that will be useful for the Civils exams. The standard textbooks aren't cutting it."
Asking experts like Baskar for recommendations is the best way to get through the hassle of searching the labyrinthine racks himself. Baskar knows every spine in this building.
"David, only because you are diligent and studious am I helping you." Baskar sighs, shifting a stack of files. He has seen many young people come to the library only to waste their time flirting, sleeping, or using the free fans. David is different; Baskar has seen the desperation in the boy's eyes.
He points a bony finger toward the back of the hall. "In the third rack, near the window, there will be a book named Comprehensive World History by L. Mukherjee. That will be of great use to you. It covers the Industrial Revolution very well."
"Thank you, Sir!" David beams.
What David doesn't see is another young man standing next to the reference section who listens to all of this. He is well-dressed, wearing a branded shirt and a confident sneer — the look of a candidate who has cleared the prelims before. Before David can move, the man casually walks to the third shelf, spots the book Baskar mentioned, grabs it, and tucks it under his arm. He walks past David without a glance, heading to a corner seat to read.
Unaware of this silent theft, David goes to the third rack with a spring in his step.
He searches. He scans the spines. He moves piles of misplaced geography books. After searching for ten minutes, the optimism fades. Comprehensive World History is nowhere to be found.
"Just my luck," David mutters, wiping sweat from his forehead.
However, as he shifts a pile of dusty almanacs, he spots something unusual tucked behind them. It is a book simply titled History Volume 1.
David pauses. He is interested in it immediately because of the cover. It is bound in real, dark leather, cracked with age but strangely supple. In a library filled with mass-market paperbacks and hardbound academic texts, a leather cover is very rare. It looks like a personal diary or an antique manuscript.
He pulls it out. It is heavier than it looks. He runs his thumb over the spine; there is no library code sticker, no Dewey Decimal number.
He takes the book and walks back to the front desk. "Baskar sir, I didn't find the book you mentioned. Someone must have beaten me to it. But I found another one, so I will be reading this first."
"Okay, someone else must have taken it. The competition is high these days." Baskar doesn't look up from his ledger. "Let me check the entries." Everyone has to register with an ID to read books from the restricted section.
David quickly scribbles his name and the title History Volume 1 in the register. He finds a quiet spot at the far end of a long wooden table, away from the whirring ceiling fan that tends to blow pages shut.
He places the book on the table. There is no author's name on the front, which reinforces David's thought that it might be a donated diary. However, when he opens the heavy cover, he realizes it is a printed book, not handwritten. The paper is thick, creamy, and smells faintly of ozone and metal, not the usual vanilla scent of old books.
He soon notices a strange inconsistency: while the cover title is in English, the text inside is in old Sanskrit. The script is elegant, sharp, and flows across the page in tight, disciplined lines. Stranger still, the book looks brand new on the inside. There is no yellowing, no dog-eared corners, no coffee stains. It looks as if the ink has just dried.
David frowns, trying to read a few lines. "Am... Vaimanika..." He stumbles. His knowledge of Sanskrit is limited to the few prayers he listened to and forgot as a science student.
Disappointed, he sighs. "Useless." He prepares to return the book to the desk.
Just as he is about to slam it shut, however, a page catches his eye. It contains an illustration so detailed it looks like a photograph printed on parchment. It depicts a building that twists into the sky, defying gravity, connected by bridges that seem made of light.
Captivated, David decides to keep the book a little longer, if only to look at the pictures.
He spends more than an hour just flipping through the pages, lost in the artwork. He sees diagrams of complex machinery that look like cross-sections of engines, but with gears made of crystal and pistons shaped like flowers. He sees vast landscapes of deserts and floating islands.
When he reaches the last few pages, the subject matter shifts. He finds pictures of animals that do not exist on Earth. Everything is printed in black and white, yet the images are so sharp and high-definition that he can easily make out the intricate features of the creatures.
There is a wolf-like beast with six legs and scales instead of fur. There is a serpent with wings that seem to be made of blades. There are only two pictures of these strange beasts in the entire book, but they leave David staring in bewilderment.
"What kind of history is this?" he whispers to himself. "Is this some kind of mythology concept art?"
David reaches the final page. It is blank. He prepares to close the book and return it to the shelf, having understood nothing of its text but thoroughly enjoyed the art.
He places his right hand on the open pages to push himself up from the chair — an unconscious action to support his weight.
Click.
A distinct, mechanical sound resonates from within the book, loud enough to be heard over the library's silence.
David freezes. To his shock, the Sanskrit letters on the page beneath his palm begin to wriggle. They detach from the paper, liquefying instantly. The ink dissolves into a substance resembling silver-black water — viscous, shimmering, and alive.
Before he can pull his hand away, the substance surges upward. It defies gravity, crawling over his fingers like a living glove. It feels unnaturally cold, like dry ice burning his skin.
"What the — !"
The liquid metal moves with fluid purpose, swirling around his wrist. Then, with a sudden snap, it solidifies. It changes its form instantly, hardening into a silver-black chain bracelet clamped tightly around his wrist.
At first, David is too stunned to register the change. He stares at the metallic object now fused to his body. But as the cold sensation sinks into his bones, he gasps in fright. Panic sets in. Thinking it is a centipede or some strange, venomous insect crawling on him, his primal instincts take over.
He frantically tries to shake the thing off his hand, flailing his arm wildly.
"Get off! Get off!"
He cries out in fear, his voice shattering the library's sacred silence. The sound echoes off the high ceilings. Everyone sitting nearby — dozens of students, the old men, the staff — jumps, caught completely off guard by the sudden commotion. Chairs scrape against the floor as people stand up to look.
However, realizing there is no stinging pain, David quickly comes to his senses. He stops flailing, his chest heaving. He grabs the bracelet with his left hand and tries to pry it off.
It doesn't budge. It isn't painful, but it is tight — fitted perfectly to his skin, as if it has been molded there since birth. It has no clasp, no lock. It is a seamless circle of alien metal.
He looks up. Dozens of pairs of eyes are staring at him. Some look annoyed, some amused, others look at him as if he were crazy. The embarrassment hits him harder than the fear. He is making a scene in the one place he respects the most.
His face burns hot. He can't explain this. He can't explain that the book just ate its own words and wrapped them around his wrist.
"Baskar sir, I'm... I'm going out for a while!" he stammers, pointing vaguely behind him while backing away toward the door. "The book... the book is over there!"
He doesn't wait for a reply. He grabs his canvas bag, ignoring the whispers breaking out around him, and rushes out of the library, the silver-black chain cold against his pulse.
Baskar, startled by the boy's sudden exit, walks over to the table. He sees the leather book lying open where David left it. He takes the book and adjusts his glasses, curious to see what upset the usually quiet boy.
He opens it.
Baskar frowns. He flips through the pages, then flips them again.
There are no words inside. There are no pictures of twisting towers or six-legged wolves. The pages are pristine, creamy white, and completely blank. It is just an empty notebook.