I then worked as a research fellow in the Department of Chemistry, of an institute, sponsored by CSIR, India - a position that earned me considerable respect. Every morning, I rose early, ingrained with a strong work ethic. Since I was not residing in the hostel, I'd pedal my bicycle to the institute after my morning routine, relishing a favourite snack of upma (made up of semolina), jalebi (a sweet dish) in nearby shop, and a steaming cup of tea.
With one or two books in the cycle carrier and a little scholarship money in my pocket, I felt like the richest and most learned person in the city. I was entrusted with a key to the main gate of the department, which I regarded as an additional responsibility and a feather in my cap. With a girlfriend back in my village, I was possibly the most contented person on earth. Respected, knowledgeable, loved, affluent, and recognized - what more could I ask for?
I would purchase a few flowers and sometimes incense sticks from the market before opening the gates and door of the old building to enter my lab. My typical day would start with a small worship ceremony for the lord. Like most research scholars (not all), I didn't have much work to do. What mattered more was my presence, with doors and windows ajar, so everyone nearby could see how long our lab remained open. This would subsequently enhance the perceived dedication of our research team.
I'd commence the distillation process to collect deionized water. The actual work for the day typically took no more than two hours, but I knew I had to stay until the evening. I often spent the remaining time dreaming about my golden future or thinking about my girlfriend if I wasn't studying orengaged in anything serious. Upon my supervisor's arrival, he'd either smile at me or not, depending on his mood, and then bow before the idols' photographs. A tall man weighing not less than 90 kg, with a well-trimmed moustache and nicely combed hair, he had a totally contrasting appearance to mine. Without fail, I'd always keep a few paans (betel) for him on the table, wrapped in a plastic pouch, carefully brought from his favourite shop. All I had to do was utter his name with 'Sir' as a suffix and wait to pay for his paans, as the shopkeeper knew him so well. When he put a paan in his large mouth, a satisfied smile might descend from his lips, which always gave me a lot of relief and pleasure. Afterward, he might go to teach a class or two.
From his published research papers, I knew he had enjoyed significant success in research during his career, securing foreign scholarships and earning a D.Litt. However, that was in his younger days. Now, with concerns about his children's education, his wife's demands for more money, and his yearning for a promotion to professor, he hardly took an interest in my work.
I shouldn't blame him alone. In fact, I was also at fault. I had chosen to stay at that institute to be close to my girlfriend. With my CSIR-NET results, I could have joined any pioneering lab in the country. Although he showed little interest in the quality of my work, his unfailing love for me was evident. He often took me to a hotel and offered me food, and would lovingly introduce me to everyone, saying that I was a CSIR-qualified scholar and a Gold Medallist.
By noon, I would typically be eagerly anticipating my meal. I'd take a break fromthe lab and head straight to the hotel I never wanted to miss. The staff there knew me well and often asked me to wait a bit longer as they prepared my favourite dish, made from goat liver. The hotel would prepare this dish only after making all the other common dishes. Being an avid non-vegetarian, I relished such meals and often teased myself about what a treat it was for a young man like me. Upon returning to the laboratory, I'd often find my supervisor already off for his meal and rest. The high ceilings of the old building kept the lab pleasantly cool, and before long, I'd find myself drifting into a deep slumber, resting my head on the table while still seated in my chair.
Snack time was always a cherished moment for me, and I never let it pass without treating myself. Simple pleasures like an 'Aloo Chop' - made from mashed potato and chickpea flour - accompanied by a nice cup of tea were sufficient to satisfy me. One thing I prided myself on was my diligence. I always found time to study, a skill at which I excelled. My proficiency in Organic Chemistry was notable, but even more impressive was my knack for content editing.
Before leaving for the day to my humble abode, about four kilometres from the lab, I often reported to my master, who never allowed me to leave without feeding me something. For dinner, a small hotel close to my room regularly served a fried head of a large fish, crushed in a mortar and pestle and specially cooked for me. Two of my principal meals almost always followed this menu; the only opportunity for variation lay in the snacks and perhaps an occasional additional treat. Finally, with a set of matand pillow on the roof, an arranged makeshift fan, and some of my neighbours - mostly of my age with little variation - I called it a day. In those days, mobile phones were used by a select few and were solely for connectivity, lacking internet capabilities. We often engaged in conversations with each other, unlike today, when people stare at their screens until they fall asleep.
My love for food, or you could say my foolishness, was so well-known that students from other departments would invite me over and feed me in exchange for proofreading their work. With sharp eyes and a decent command of English, at least enough to correct Ph.D. theses, I was a champion at this task. Often, they would feed me, hand over their work, and then go off to enjoy themselves.
A significant change awaited me, one that I had no inkling of. One of our senior researchers introduced me to the director of a coaching institute with heaps of praise, and soon I was assigned classes to teach students preparing for entrance examinations that included chemistry in their curriculum. I worked at the institute after the lab's working hours. From the very beginning, my teaching seemed to cast a spell on my students, who viewed me as both capable and competent. While most of the teachers arrived at the institute by personal car or costly bikes, I rode my bicycle, but that did not undermine my importance. At the time, I had a shaved head with a 'shika' or 'choti' (a lone tuft of hair tied at the back or top of an otherwise smooth scalp), and I wore jeans and a printed shirt, which made me stand out from the others.
The secret of my attire lay elsewhere. As usual, I would always purchase andread books, apart from eating. Once, I came across a book on Chanakya. This cunning, intelligent, ruthless, learned, brave, and value-based Brahmin of India, known for his statecraft, lived between 370 to 275 BCE. His reaction to the insult made by the King of Magadha, Dhana Nanda, where he shook his hair loose and let it stream down his neck, vowing, 'I, Chanakya, vow not to bind my hair until I have unseated you from the throne of Magadha,' impressed me so much that I found great joy and enjoyed unparalleled confidence in considering myself as Chanakya and trying to lead a brave life.
Soon, I forged a close relationship with the management, especially with the director. He often sought my advice on matters concerning the institute and its performance. My frequent references to stories about Chanakya earned me a nickname - the same as his. This was exactly what I wanted. Already affluent, knowledgeable, and competent, this additional badge of 'Chanakya' and a little extra money from coaching made me even prouder. Often, I would treat myself to more food, like two fried fish heads at night.
I knew many of the staff and a few students would often laugh at my appearance. With a broad forehead, a cleanly shaved head, short height, front teeth slightly misaligned, a clearly visible 'shika,' a printed shirt, loose jeans, I likely looked funny. However, all of them couldn't help but praise my ability to teach and my command of the subject.
I knew that only my girlfriend's approval mattered to me, so I paid no attention to their laughter. Then came the Puja vacation. The entire northern India was enveloped in a festive atmosphere, and I was granted six days' leave. With little gifts, mostly food items packaged neatly, and a golden-coloured wristwatch that Ideemed nice-looking, for my girlfriend, I set off for my hometown. It was more like a village than a town. As always, I felt completely content. At that time, only my parents were living in our ancestral home; my siblings were either studying or working in distant places.
The next morning, eager to meet her, I sent a message through a local boy since she didn't have a mobile phone (but I did). Soon, the meeting time and place were fixed, and I rushed to the spot with the gift hidden in my pocket. Dressed in my jeans, printed shirt, and shaved head with a 'choti,' I waited for her. It had been about five months since I last saw her, and to me, she was the most beautiful and conscientious girl to ever walk the earth. She was no less than a living goddess in my eyes.
She arrived on time, but the usual smile and excitement were missing from her eyes. I noticed she had put on a little weight since our last meeting. She looked at me and my outfit with amazement and then burst into laughter. I couldn't tell what conclusions she was drawing, but her reaction left me feeling uncertain and self-conscious.
"How do you look? Oh my God!" she exclaimed, her laughter echoing in the air.
I felt a sting. "Is it very bad?" I asked, trying to smile.
She didn't reply but continued to laugh. Her laugh was like the ringing of a bell, yet it somehow stung me. To steady my emotions, I pulled out the gift and placed it in her hand with a broad smile. The masculine satisfaction of earning and giving, especially to a girlfriend, dominated my feelings. A bright smile appeared on her face. Before I could relax, she said, "I have togo; I have some unfinished tasks to do."
I watched her walk away, the weight of her indifference settling into my chest. Something inside me felt off, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the upcoming days we would spend together. However, my friend soon shattered that hope.
Within the next few days, one of my friends informed me of something I found difficult to accept. He said, "Do you know she has developed an intimate relationship with him?" His words hit me like a punch to the gut. The name he mentioned twisted in my mind - it was the boy she once called her younger brother. How could she? The betrayal felt unreal, and I struggled to process the thought of being replaced by someone she treated as family.
There would be no reconciliation, no going back. I knew this was the end.
It was October, and although there was sporadic blossoming, the colours seemed pale to me. As I sat there, I recalled a few pages from the book of Chanakya. When Chanakya challenged King Dhana Nanda and stepped out of the court, the king could only glare at the receding figure for a few moments, as if he couldn't believe that a simple Brahmin could challenge him. "Arrest the scoundrel!" roared the king, soon he gained his sense. By then, Chanakya had walked away, but when he heard the footsteps of the approaching guards, he entered a room with an ajar door.
Chanakya encountered Parvata, the rebellious son of the king, who knew he had no chance of ascending the throne. Recognizing the mutual benefit of their situation, they formed an alliance to escape. Parvata admired the Brahmin's courage in challenging his father and saw the potential for assistance in seizing the throne. Meanwhile, Chanakya saw Parvata as a meansto secure a safe passage from the palace and as a potential royal figure to groom for kingship. Parvata was familiar with a tunnel leading from the palace into the jungle. With a swift maneuver, they made use of the tunnel and soon found themselves liberated.
On their journey to Takshashila, approximately 1500 kilometres from Pataliputra, the capital of Magadha, Chanakya encountered an orphan named Chandragupta. Impressed by the boy's regal qualities, Chanakya decided to adopt him and brought him along to Takshashila, accompanied by Parvata. With two boys by his side - one a prince and the other possessing supreme princely qualities - Chanakya faced the decision of whom to groom as a king to replace Dhana Nanda.
To determine the best candidate, Chanakya devised a series of tests. One of these tests took the decisive role. Both boys had gold chains around their necks, gifted to them by an admirer of Chanakya. As part of the final test, Chanakya then instructed Parvata, "Look, my boy! Tonight, you must complete a task for me. While Chandragupta is asleep, bring me his gold chain without waking him or unclasping the chain. If you succeed, wake me up regardless of the hour."
The prince agreed and went to sleep under a tree with Chandragupta, while Chanakya slept under another tree. When Chanakya woke up at dawn, he realized Parvata had not called him during the night. As he sat up, he saw the prince sitting by his feet. Their eyes met, and the young lad said with tearful eyes, "Guruji, I could not do it. Forgive me." Chanakya only smiled.
A few days later, Chanakya offered the same challenge to Chandragupta, who had to bring Parvata's gold chain under similar conditions. In the middle of the night, Chanakya was awakened by a faint call, "Guruji!Guruji!" He saw Chandragupta standing next to him, holding the gold chain. "This is what you asked for," Chandragupta said as he handed it over. Chanakya noticed the chain was sticky with a fluid that smelled like blood. A mysterious expression appeared on Chanakya's face.
"So, you did it, my boy. I shall make you the king. A king cannot have emotions."
Finally, twenty-two years after taking his vow of revenge, Chanakya dethroned King Dhana Nanda of Magadha and made Chandragupta the new king.
As I recalled this story, I felt a surge of energy and muttered to myself, "I cannot be emotional if I wish to live like a king." Even before the vacation ended, I left for my workplace, determined to sever ties with her immediately. No relationship is better than one built on mistrust. My heart and mind were heavy, but my will was strong. I tried to counsel myself, thinking, "Who knows, this might be a blessing in disguise." I couldn't concentrate in the lab, as the work was not at all challenging. In most research, we simply repeat the same experiment done by others, only changing the solvent, the temperature, or the base substance on which the reaction is carried out. I needed more challenging work to pacify my mind, which was in turmoil.
With days of despair and frustration, the one who had been very happy just a few days before, considering himself the blessed one, was now shattered. My friend from my village called, informing me about her inquiry and expression of sympathy towards me. I decided to stick to the wisdom: "To live like a king, one cannot be emotional." Even my low mood was visible in my activities. I began to withdraw from social interactions, choosing instead to immerse myself in work. Despite themundane nature of my tasks, I pushed myself harder, hoping to find some solace in productivity. However, the lingering sadness made it difficult to find satisfaction in even the smallest accomplishments. I knew that my mind, like most people's, had a tendency to focus on the negative aspects of life while overlooking the positive ones.
It was the year 2010 and the film '2012' was showing in theatres. The central theme of the film revolved around possible apocalyptic changes that could lead to the world's destruction in 2012, based on some scientific premises. I found the concept intriguing and challenging enough to keep me engaged for several days, prompting me to gather books and articles on the subject. This newfound curiosity opened up a fascinating avenue of study that kept me thoroughly engaged, exactly what I needed to pacify my troubled mind.
In a matter of weeks, I accumulated a wealth of knowledge on the subject. One day, while seated in a coffee house, I eagerly shared my findings with the director of the coaching institute where I worked. To my surprise, he suggested, "Sir! Could you host a seminar on this topic for the students and staff?" Excited for a task to occupy my mind and ease my emotional stress, I enthusiastically accepted.
Following my lab sessions, I would head straight to the institute. After teaching my class, I would return home. As per the director's suggestion, we decided to spend our evenings together in the institute's office, preparing for the seminar. Since he was a bachelor like me at the time, we enjoyed some pleasant moments, sharing meals and working on our presentation. With his expertise in physics, he provided valuable insights that enriched our preparation.
I presented our findings to an eager and sizable audience in our largest room, projecting themonto a screen as a speaker, a role in which I excelled. Let me simplify the two main theories that underpinned our content and predicted the impending devastation.
At the seminar, I presented two fascinating theories predicting global devastation. The first was the crustal shift theory, proposed by Charles Hapgood. It suggested that a small increase in Earth's temperature could lead to more ice at the poles, causing the Earth's crust to tilt. Such a shift could result in major geographical and climatic upheavals.
The second theory, known as Time Wave Zero, came from Terence McKenna's study of the ancient Chinese text, the I Ching. He created a mathematical model predicting patterns of significant change in history, leading to an apocalyptic event in December 2012.
The audience was intrigued but uneasy. What had started as curiosity turned into a heavy realization - if these theories were true, the consequences would be dire.
After the successful presentation, a sense of achievement enveloped me. I had put in significant effort to weave a compelling narrative, even incorporating factors like the Mayan calendar into the analysis. However, as the implications of the presentation sank in, a somber mood gradually descended upon the audience. The gravity of the theories I had presented, particularly the potential devastation depicted by the crustal shift theory, weighed heavily on their minds. What had begun as curiosity and intrigue morphed into unease and apprehension. The once lively atmosphere now seemed tinged with gloom as people contemplated the implications of the information they had just received. This success of mine drew the attention of many young entrepreneurs in the city, who saw me as a potential mentor for their own business ventures.
As time marched forward, I found myself relocating to another city, where I thrived in every endeavor I pursued. The self-made Chanakya, oncethe kingmaker, had transformed into Chandragupta, the king himself. Memories of past seminars had faded into the backdrop of my bustling life. In the first week of January 2013, as I sat confidently in a Starbucks, well-dressed in my sharp suit and tie, my phone rang incessantly.
Each call carried the same message:
"Sir! No such devastation took place as you had mentioned! We're already in 2013."
I paused, staring at the phone, a slight smile creeping across my face. The world hadn't ended, and here I was - still standing, still moving forward. It was a strange feeling, a mix of relief and humility. The certainty I once had about the impending catastrophe now felt naive, a reminder of how easily even the best-researched predictions can falter in the face of reality.
I realized Hapgood never specifically mentioned 2012 in his theory; I had added my own layer of certainty, drawn in by the allure of the unknown and the appeal of dramatic conclusions. As I reflected on those phone calls, I understood something deeper. The seminar, the theories, and that brief period of depression - all were part of a larger lesson. Resilience in the face of uncertainty defines us. I wasn't the same person who'd stood on that stage; I was stronger and wiser now.
With one or two books in the cycle carrier and a little scholarship money in my pocket, I felt like the richest and most learned person in the city. I was entrusted with a key to the main gate of the department, which I regarded as an additional responsibility and a feather in my cap. With a girlfriend back in my village, I was possibly the most contented person on earth. Respected, knowledgeable, loved, affluent, and recognized - what more could I ask for?
I would purchase a few flowers and sometimes incense sticks from the market before opening the gates and door of the old building to enter my lab. My typical day would start with a small worship ceremony for the lord. Like most research scholars (not all), I didn't have much work to do. What mattered more was my presence, with doors and windows ajar, so everyone nearby could see how long our lab remained open. This would subsequently enhance the perceived dedication of our research team.
I'd commence the distillation process to collect deionized water. The actual work for the day typically took no more than two hours, but I knew I had to stay until the evening. I often spent the remaining time dreaming about my golden future or thinking about my girlfriend if I wasn't studying orengaged in anything serious. Upon my supervisor's arrival, he'd either smile at me or not, depending on his mood, and then bow before the idols' photographs. A tall man weighing not less than 90 kg, with a well-trimmed moustache and nicely combed hair, he had a totally contrasting appearance to mine. Without fail, I'd always keep a few paans (betel) for him on the table, wrapped in a plastic pouch, carefully brought from his favourite shop. All I had to do was utter his name with 'Sir' as a suffix and wait to pay for his paans, as the shopkeeper knew him so well. When he put a paan in his large mouth, a satisfied smile might descend from his lips, which always gave me a lot of relief and pleasure. Afterward, he might go to teach a class or two.
From his published research papers, I knew he had enjoyed significant success in research during his career, securing foreign scholarships and earning a D.Litt. However, that was in his younger days. Now, with concerns about his children's education, his wife's demands for more money, and his yearning for a promotion to professor, he hardly took an interest in my work.
I shouldn't blame him alone. In fact, I was also at fault. I had chosen to stay at that institute to be close to my girlfriend. With my CSIR-NET results, I could have joined any pioneering lab in the country. Although he showed little interest in the quality of my work, his unfailing love for me was evident. He often took me to a hotel and offered me food, and would lovingly introduce me to everyone, saying that I was a CSIR-qualified scholar and a Gold Medallist.
By noon, I would typically be eagerly anticipating my meal. I'd take a break fromthe lab and head straight to the hotel I never wanted to miss. The staff there knew me well and often asked me to wait a bit longer as they prepared my favourite dish, made from goat liver. The hotel would prepare this dish only after making all the other common dishes. Being an avid non-vegetarian, I relished such meals and often teased myself about what a treat it was for a young man like me. Upon returning to the laboratory, I'd often find my supervisor already off for his meal and rest. The high ceilings of the old building kept the lab pleasantly cool, and before long, I'd find myself drifting into a deep slumber, resting my head on the table while still seated in my chair.
Snack time was always a cherished moment for me, and I never let it pass without treating myself. Simple pleasures like an 'Aloo Chop' - made from mashed potato and chickpea flour - accompanied by a nice cup of tea were sufficient to satisfy me. One thing I prided myself on was my diligence. I always found time to study, a skill at which I excelled. My proficiency in Organic Chemistry was notable, but even more impressive was my knack for content editing.
Before leaving for the day to my humble abode, about four kilometres from the lab, I often reported to my master, who never allowed me to leave without feeding me something. For dinner, a small hotel close to my room regularly served a fried head of a large fish, crushed in a mortar and pestle and specially cooked for me. Two of my principal meals almost always followed this menu; the only opportunity for variation lay in the snacks and perhaps an occasional additional treat. Finally, with a set of matand pillow on the roof, an arranged makeshift fan, and some of my neighbours - mostly of my age with little variation - I called it a day. In those days, mobile phones were used by a select few and were solely for connectivity, lacking internet capabilities. We often engaged in conversations with each other, unlike today, when people stare at their screens until they fall asleep.
My love for food, or you could say my foolishness, was so well-known that students from other departments would invite me over and feed me in exchange for proofreading their work. With sharp eyes and a decent command of English, at least enough to correct Ph.D. theses, I was a champion at this task. Often, they would feed me, hand over their work, and then go off to enjoy themselves.
A significant change awaited me, one that I had no inkling of. One of our senior researchers introduced me to the director of a coaching institute with heaps of praise, and soon I was assigned classes to teach students preparing for entrance examinations that included chemistry in their curriculum. I worked at the institute after the lab's working hours. From the very beginning, my teaching seemed to cast a spell on my students, who viewed me as both capable and competent. While most of the teachers arrived at the institute by personal car or costly bikes, I rode my bicycle, but that did not undermine my importance. At the time, I had a shaved head with a 'shika' or 'choti' (a lone tuft of hair tied at the back or top of an otherwise smooth scalp), and I wore jeans and a printed shirt, which made me stand out from the others.
The secret of my attire lay elsewhere. As usual, I would always purchase andread books, apart from eating. Once, I came across a book on Chanakya. This cunning, intelligent, ruthless, learned, brave, and value-based Brahmin of India, known for his statecraft, lived between 370 to 275 BCE. His reaction to the insult made by the King of Magadha, Dhana Nanda, where he shook his hair loose and let it stream down his neck, vowing, 'I, Chanakya, vow not to bind my hair until I have unseated you from the throne of Magadha,' impressed me so much that I found great joy and enjoyed unparalleled confidence in considering myself as Chanakya and trying to lead a brave life.
Soon, I forged a close relationship with the management, especially with the director. He often sought my advice on matters concerning the institute and its performance. My frequent references to stories about Chanakya earned me a nickname - the same as his. This was exactly what I wanted. Already affluent, knowledgeable, and competent, this additional badge of 'Chanakya' and a little extra money from coaching made me even prouder. Often, I would treat myself to more food, like two fried fish heads at night.
I knew many of the staff and a few students would often laugh at my appearance. With a broad forehead, a cleanly shaved head, short height, front teeth slightly misaligned, a clearly visible 'shika,' a printed shirt, loose jeans, I likely looked funny. However, all of them couldn't help but praise my ability to teach and my command of the subject.
I knew that only my girlfriend's approval mattered to me, so I paid no attention to their laughter. Then came the Puja vacation. The entire northern India was enveloped in a festive atmosphere, and I was granted six days' leave. With little gifts, mostly food items packaged neatly, and a golden-coloured wristwatch that Ideemed nice-looking, for my girlfriend, I set off for my hometown. It was more like a village than a town. As always, I felt completely content. At that time, only my parents were living in our ancestral home; my siblings were either studying or working in distant places.
The next morning, eager to meet her, I sent a message through a local boy since she didn't have a mobile phone (but I did). Soon, the meeting time and place were fixed, and I rushed to the spot with the gift hidden in my pocket. Dressed in my jeans, printed shirt, and shaved head with a 'choti,' I waited for her. It had been about five months since I last saw her, and to me, she was the most beautiful and conscientious girl to ever walk the earth. She was no less than a living goddess in my eyes.
She arrived on time, but the usual smile and excitement were missing from her eyes. I noticed she had put on a little weight since our last meeting. She looked at me and my outfit with amazement and then burst into laughter. I couldn't tell what conclusions she was drawing, but her reaction left me feeling uncertain and self-conscious.
"How do you look? Oh my God!" she exclaimed, her laughter echoing in the air.
I felt a sting. "Is it very bad?" I asked, trying to smile.
She didn't reply but continued to laugh. Her laugh was like the ringing of a bell, yet it somehow stung me. To steady my emotions, I pulled out the gift and placed it in her hand with a broad smile. The masculine satisfaction of earning and giving, especially to a girlfriend, dominated my feelings. A bright smile appeared on her face. Before I could relax, she said, "I have togo; I have some unfinished tasks to do."
I watched her walk away, the weight of her indifference settling into my chest. Something inside me felt off, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the upcoming days we would spend together. However, my friend soon shattered that hope.
Within the next few days, one of my friends informed me of something I found difficult to accept. He said, "Do you know she has developed an intimate relationship with him?" His words hit me like a punch to the gut. The name he mentioned twisted in my mind - it was the boy she once called her younger brother. How could she? The betrayal felt unreal, and I struggled to process the thought of being replaced by someone she treated as family.
There would be no reconciliation, no going back. I knew this was the end.
It was October, and although there was sporadic blossoming, the colours seemed pale to me. As I sat there, I recalled a few pages from the book of Chanakya. When Chanakya challenged King Dhana Nanda and stepped out of the court, the king could only glare at the receding figure for a few moments, as if he couldn't believe that a simple Brahmin could challenge him. "Arrest the scoundrel!" roared the king, soon he gained his sense. By then, Chanakya had walked away, but when he heard the footsteps of the approaching guards, he entered a room with an ajar door.
Chanakya encountered Parvata, the rebellious son of the king, who knew he had no chance of ascending the throne. Recognizing the mutual benefit of their situation, they formed an alliance to escape. Parvata admired the Brahmin's courage in challenging his father and saw the potential for assistance in seizing the throne. Meanwhile, Chanakya saw Parvata as a meansto secure a safe passage from the palace and as a potential royal figure to groom for kingship. Parvata was familiar with a tunnel leading from the palace into the jungle. With a swift maneuver, they made use of the tunnel and soon found themselves liberated.
On their journey to Takshashila, approximately 1500 kilometres from Pataliputra, the capital of Magadha, Chanakya encountered an orphan named Chandragupta. Impressed by the boy's regal qualities, Chanakya decided to adopt him and brought him along to Takshashila, accompanied by Parvata. With two boys by his side - one a prince and the other possessing supreme princely qualities - Chanakya faced the decision of whom to groom as a king to replace Dhana Nanda.
To determine the best candidate, Chanakya devised a series of tests. One of these tests took the decisive role. Both boys had gold chains around their necks, gifted to them by an admirer of Chanakya. As part of the final test, Chanakya then instructed Parvata, "Look, my boy! Tonight, you must complete a task for me. While Chandragupta is asleep, bring me his gold chain without waking him or unclasping the chain. If you succeed, wake me up regardless of the hour."
The prince agreed and went to sleep under a tree with Chandragupta, while Chanakya slept under another tree. When Chanakya woke up at dawn, he realized Parvata had not called him during the night. As he sat up, he saw the prince sitting by his feet. Their eyes met, and the young lad said with tearful eyes, "Guruji, I could not do it. Forgive me." Chanakya only smiled.
A few days later, Chanakya offered the same challenge to Chandragupta, who had to bring Parvata's gold chain under similar conditions. In the middle of the night, Chanakya was awakened by a faint call, "Guruji!Guruji!" He saw Chandragupta standing next to him, holding the gold chain. "This is what you asked for," Chandragupta said as he handed it over. Chanakya noticed the chain was sticky with a fluid that smelled like blood. A mysterious expression appeared on Chanakya's face.
"So, you did it, my boy. I shall make you the king. A king cannot have emotions."
Finally, twenty-two years after taking his vow of revenge, Chanakya dethroned King Dhana Nanda of Magadha and made Chandragupta the new king.
As I recalled this story, I felt a surge of energy and muttered to myself, "I cannot be emotional if I wish to live like a king." Even before the vacation ended, I left for my workplace, determined to sever ties with her immediately. No relationship is better than one built on mistrust. My heart and mind were heavy, but my will was strong. I tried to counsel myself, thinking, "Who knows, this might be a blessing in disguise." I couldn't concentrate in the lab, as the work was not at all challenging. In most research, we simply repeat the same experiment done by others, only changing the solvent, the temperature, or the base substance on which the reaction is carried out. I needed more challenging work to pacify my mind, which was in turmoil.
With days of despair and frustration, the one who had been very happy just a few days before, considering himself the blessed one, was now shattered. My friend from my village called, informing me about her inquiry and expression of sympathy towards me. I decided to stick to the wisdom: "To live like a king, one cannot be emotional." Even my low mood was visible in my activities. I began to withdraw from social interactions, choosing instead to immerse myself in work. Despite themundane nature of my tasks, I pushed myself harder, hoping to find some solace in productivity. However, the lingering sadness made it difficult to find satisfaction in even the smallest accomplishments. I knew that my mind, like most people's, had a tendency to focus on the negative aspects of life while overlooking the positive ones.
It was the year 2010 and the film '2012' was showing in theatres. The central theme of the film revolved around possible apocalyptic changes that could lead to the world's destruction in 2012, based on some scientific premises. I found the concept intriguing and challenging enough to keep me engaged for several days, prompting me to gather books and articles on the subject. This newfound curiosity opened up a fascinating avenue of study that kept me thoroughly engaged, exactly what I needed to pacify my troubled mind.
In a matter of weeks, I accumulated a wealth of knowledge on the subject. One day, while seated in a coffee house, I eagerly shared my findings with the director of the coaching institute where I worked. To my surprise, he suggested, "Sir! Could you host a seminar on this topic for the students and staff?" Excited for a task to occupy my mind and ease my emotional stress, I enthusiastically accepted.
Following my lab sessions, I would head straight to the institute. After teaching my class, I would return home. As per the director's suggestion, we decided to spend our evenings together in the institute's office, preparing for the seminar. Since he was a bachelor like me at the time, we enjoyed some pleasant moments, sharing meals and working on our presentation. With his expertise in physics, he provided valuable insights that enriched our preparation.
I presented our findings to an eager and sizable audience in our largest room, projecting themonto a screen as a speaker, a role in which I excelled. Let me simplify the two main theories that underpinned our content and predicted the impending devastation.
At the seminar, I presented two fascinating theories predicting global devastation. The first was the crustal shift theory, proposed by Charles Hapgood. It suggested that a small increase in Earth's temperature could lead to more ice at the poles, causing the Earth's crust to tilt. Such a shift could result in major geographical and climatic upheavals.
The second theory, known as Time Wave Zero, came from Terence McKenna's study of the ancient Chinese text, the I Ching. He created a mathematical model predicting patterns of significant change in history, leading to an apocalyptic event in December 2012.
The audience was intrigued but uneasy. What had started as curiosity turned into a heavy realization - if these theories were true, the consequences would be dire.
After the successful presentation, a sense of achievement enveloped me. I had put in significant effort to weave a compelling narrative, even incorporating factors like the Mayan calendar into the analysis. However, as the implications of the presentation sank in, a somber mood gradually descended upon the audience. The gravity of the theories I had presented, particularly the potential devastation depicted by the crustal shift theory, weighed heavily on their minds. What had begun as curiosity and intrigue morphed into unease and apprehension. The once lively atmosphere now seemed tinged with gloom as people contemplated the implications of the information they had just received. This success of mine drew the attention of many young entrepreneurs in the city, who saw me as a potential mentor for their own business ventures.
As time marched forward, I found myself relocating to another city, where I thrived in every endeavor I pursued. The self-made Chanakya, oncethe kingmaker, had transformed into Chandragupta, the king himself. Memories of past seminars had faded into the backdrop of my bustling life. In the first week of January 2013, as I sat confidently in a Starbucks, well-dressed in my sharp suit and tie, my phone rang incessantly.
Each call carried the same message:
"Sir! No such devastation took place as you had mentioned! We're already in 2013."
I paused, staring at the phone, a slight smile creeping across my face. The world hadn't ended, and here I was - still standing, still moving forward. It was a strange feeling, a mix of relief and humility. The certainty I once had about the impending catastrophe now felt naive, a reminder of how easily even the best-researched predictions can falter in the face of reality.
I realized Hapgood never specifically mentioned 2012 in his theory; I had added my own layer of certainty, drawn in by the allure of the unknown and the appeal of dramatic conclusions. As I reflected on those phone calls, I understood something deeper. The seminar, the theories, and that brief period of depression - all were part of a larger lesson. Resilience in the face of uncertainty defines us. I wasn't the same person who'd stood on that stage; I was stronger and wiser now.
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