Introduction

This is a story written in the form of a tale, yet it seeks to portray historical events. It captures the turbulence and upheavals that shook India between the 2nd and 5th centuries, and how society and daily life unfolded during those unsettled times. In that era, neither castes nor professions were fixed; both were in flux.

It was during this same age that the great caves of Ajanta and Ellora  were conceived and carved with sublime artistry. Sculptors and craftsmen dedicated their lives to their art, shaping it into the very purpose of their existence.

At the same time, the Telugu language we speak today was not confined to the Telugu land alone — it also echoed across certain tribes in far-off Afghanistan. The roots of culture were stretching wide, even as invasions scattered Buddhist communities, forcing monks to load their libraries onto horses and ox-carts, carrying precious manuscripts to safety.

History tells us that even the poet Bhartrihari turned back and forth seven times between Buddhism and Hinduism — such was the confusion of faith in that age. Meanwhile, leather, wool, and cotton textiles began competing as the marks of civilization, each proclaiming itself the superior craft.

Amidst all this turmoil, tribal communities slowly merged into great janapadas — powerful states that would shape the future.

This tale, then, is a work of fiction woven from the threads of centuries of history. It transforms an age of upheaval into narrative form, giving voice to the lived struggles, ambitions, and dreams of that vanished world.

Chapter One

The forest breathed like a living creature, vast and unbroken, its canopy swallowing the sky. Ancient trees stood shoulder to shoulder, their branches weaving a roof of green shadows, while the undergrowth whispered with the scurrying of unseen life. Somewhere beyond, a stream sang softly, its silver voice rising and falling like a hidden song of the earth.

Under the shade of a banyan, two horses were tethered to a neem tree. Their flanks glistened with sweat, tails swishing against persistent flies. Nearby, upon the roots of the banyan itself, sat Nagashala, his dark eyes wandering far beyond the forest. His face was drawn, thoughtful, as though he carried a weight heavier than the satchel slung across his shoulder. For in that stillness, his thoughts drifted — to his mother’s gentle voice, to the warmth of a vanished hearth, to the pride of a kingdom he had left behind.

A few paces away, his cousin Ilanag lay crumpled against the trunk of another tree, his body weakened by two relentless days of illness. Fever and dysentery had stolen his strength, leaving his lips parched and his skin pale. His once-white robes were now stained a dull saffron, clinging in damp patches, the scent of sickness rising from them. Each labored breath carried a faint moan, and Nagashala’s heart tightened to hear it.

It had been a year and a half since they had stepped beyond the walls of home, choosing exile not from necessity but from desire. Princes of the old dynasties had roamed the world in their youth, testing their courage, learning the arts of war and wisdom before returning to rule. Nagashala and Ilanag had set out in that same spirit. Theirs was no idle wandering, but a journey shaped by duty, curiosity, and yearning.

His mother, Nagaputri, had sown the seed of wanderlust in him since childhood. She told him stories of young men who carried both sword and lyre, learning the ways of kingdoms far and wide. His father, Nagapala, was a man of science and art, who urged his son to look beyond conquest, to seek knowledge in every land. Ilanag, the son of Nagapala’s sister, was of gentler soil: his heart belonged to fields, to trees, to the rhythm of planting and harvest. But blood and affection bound the two together as if they were one soul in two bodies.

Nagapala had warned them before their departure. Roads were dangerous, he had said. Men could betray as swiftly as wolves, rivers could sweep away even the strong, and fever could strike like a thief in the night. Yet he had urged them onward — for what worth was learning if not tempered by trial? They had promised to obey his counsel, to carry the blessings of their elders as a shield against despair.

And so they had walked the earth. They had crossed jungles where tigers roared unseen, forded rivers swollen with monsoon rage, slept among tribes whose language they did not know, and broken bread with wandering caravans whose carts rattled endlessly toward horizons unknown. Sometimes they feared for their lives, sometimes they laughed with strangers. Slowly, the weight of months turned them from boys into men.

Now, under the banyan, with Ilanag sick and shivering, Nagashala let out a sigh. His hand touched the pouch at his waist — heavy with coins his parents had entrusted to him. They were not common currency but relics of a past that seemed greater than the present: Greek drachmas, Roman denarii, coins of Magadha, Gandhara, China, and Satavahana. His parents had said, “Guard them well. Show them only in dire need. They are proof of who we are, of what we have been.”

Nagashala pressed his eyes shut. What use were relics when life itself hung by a thread? Bandits prowled the forests, tribes waged wars without mercy, fevers took lives in silence. And yet, for all that uncertainty, men still clung to tokens of wealth and memory. He wondered why — was it pride, hope, or simply fear of being forgotten?

He looked once more at Ilanag, breathing shallowly under the tree. His cousin had been too eager in his curiosity, nibbling wild berries without caution, drinking from untested streams. The earth itself could kill the unwise. And yet, Nagashala could not bring himself to blame him. Was not curiosity itself the fire that drove their wandering?

The forest sighed around them, its voice both cruel and kind. And in that sigh, Nagashala felt the weight of his father’s words once more — a reminder of promises, of warnings, of an inheritance he could neither escape nor yet fully claim.

Chapter Two

The road was endless, unrolling like a scar across the land. Dust clung to their feet, sunburnt winds scoured their faces, and still they walked. Yet each step was its own lesson. The world was no kind tutor, but it revealed truths with every hardship.

They had begun their journey barefoot, with only satchels, sticks, and the confidence of youth. By persistence — and perhaps a stroke of fortune — they had come into the possession of two horses. These beasts had carried them across thick forests, over the swollen backs of rivers, and into the plains where tribes gathered around flickering fires. The earth itself became their teacher: the roar of beasts reminded them of death’s nearness, the generosity of strangers reminded them that humanity was a bridge, fragile but enduring.

Nomads passed them often — caravans with bullock carts groaning under weight of possessions, entire families fleeing floods, wars, or famine. The travelers spoke tongues Nagashala could not understand, yet hunger and laughter required no translation. Sometimes they shared grain and songs, sometimes only wary glances before vanishing into the dusk.

It was amid such wanderings that fate led them to a man whose presence would alter Nagashala’s life forever: Anandabuddha.

He was a teacher robed in simple cloth, yet his words had the weight of mountains. He greeted them not as strangers, but as fellow souls on a journey. His smile was patient, his gaze deep, as though he had seen through sorrow and joy alike and emerged untouched. In the flickering light of his campfire, he spoke to them of languages — Prakrit, Pali, Sanskrit, even the harsh tones of the Pisachi tongue.

To Nagashala, each word was like a new star in the night sky. Until then, languages had been barriers, walls that kept men apart. Anandabuddha revealed them to be bridges, ropes thrown across rivers of difference. Words were not mere sounds, but vessels of memory. They carried stories of ancestors, of triumphs and defeats, of the dreams of forgotten peoples.

For Ilanag, the lessons were gentler but no less profound. The teacher spoke of the language of soil, of how the earth itself spoke through its fruits, of how men who listened to rivers and trees could live in harmony with them. Ilanag’s weary eyes brightened for the first time in many days, as though he had been reminded of the roots he carried in his heart.

Under Anandabuddha’s guidance, the cousins began to see their wanderings not as aimless trials but as a pilgrimage of the spirit. To Nagashala, the fire of curiosity blazed brighter. He longed not only to see kingdoms and courts but to understand the pulse that beat beneath them — the art, the faith, the wisdom that bound men together. And somewhere deep within him, though he could not yet name it, there stirred a hunger greater than conquest: the hunger for meaning.

Chapter Three

Night in the wilderness was a different world. The trees stood like black pillars against a sky scattered with stars, their roots sunk deep in silence, their branches swaying to winds that carried the cries of unseen creatures. The fire crackled low, throwing shadows across Nagashala’s face as he stared into the flames.

His father’s voice echoed in memory. Nagapala had spoken with the authority of a man who had lived through both glory and shame.

“Nagasa,” he had said the night before their departure, “remember who you are, and what you are not. Ours is a line praised by kings and queens, by scholars and merchants alike. The world has celebrated our skills, our music, our art. But beware the palaces of kings. No matter how noble a throne may seem, it is built upon the suffering of others. Wealth gathered in those halls is blood-stained, wrung from the toil of the people. If you sit too long in such places, you too will be stained.”

Nagashala could still see his father’s eyes that night, dark and urgent.

“Promise me, my son — do not seek your fortune in the courts of rulers. Freedom is the breath of the artist. Even your mother, once a royal princess, turned her back on palaces to follow me into exile. She chose love and freedom over gold. Let that be your guide.”

Then his father’s voice had softened, breaking into sorrow. “Your sister — you remember — was once taken by the hunter-king Assaka, stolen from us and made his queen. That wound still burns in me. Your mother too was unable to forget it. She left three years ago to seek vengeance upon him. Perhaps she rules now in some distant land of women. If fate is kind, you may hear of her in your travels. Seek her, if you can, but take care, Nagasa. She was fierce, and she walked dangerous paths.”

Nagashala swallowed hard at the memory. The fire before him seemed to blur, replaced by the vision of his mother, a proud queen turned wanderer, consumed by revenge.

His father had not ended there. He had gripped Nagashala’s shoulder with a strength that belied his age.

“Beware the Buddhists,” he had warned, his voice sharp. “They speak of peace, of compassion, of renouncing the world — but their words are snares. One of your sisters was lost to them, became a monk in saffron cloth. If you too walk that path, our lineage ends. Our art, our heritage, everything we have guarded for generations will vanish with you. Do not let that happen.”

Why his father despised them so bitterly, Nagashala did not understand. Were not these very Buddhists healers in times of war, wanderers who carried wisdom across burning lands? He could not reconcile the hatred with the gentleness he had glimpsed in monks on the road. Yet his father’s voice had carried such weight, such desperation, that he had promised obedience.

Nagapala’s final counsel had been softer, almost tender. “Honor women wherever you go. Do not scorn them, do not wrong them. And these coins I give you — the golden Simuka pieces, the drachmas from Rome, the treasured gifts of your mother — guard them. They are not wealth but memory. Use them only when the shadow of death is near.”

Now, staring into the fire, Nagashala felt the pull of his father’s words in every beat of his heart. His destiny stretched before him like the road itself: uncertain, dangerous, yet marked with the footprints of those who had gone before.

The night wind rose. Ilanag stirred in his sleep, muttering faintly. Nagashala drew his cloak tighter and turned his gaze upward to the cold, unblinking stars.

“Father,” he whispered, though no one heard, “I will remember. I will honor. But I must also see for myself.”

Chapter Four

The night had been long and cruel. Mosquitoes had swarmed in clouds, their piercing hum robbing Nagashala of rest. Fevered dreams clung to his mind, the cries of beasts rising and falling with the wind. At last, in the gray hush before dawn, he closed his eyes and drifted into uneasy sleep.

A sound woke him.

Soft. Rhythmic. The faint swish of bare feet against earth.

Nagashala stirred, blinked, and saw a silhouette moving gracefully down the slope toward the stream. It was a woman, a clay pot balanced on her hip, her steps steady despite the uneven ground. The sight startled him — not because she was a stranger, but because she was the first woman he had seen in many days of wandering through the wild.

He watched her vanish into the mist. The sound of water splashing reached his ears, then silence, then the steady rhythm of footsteps returning. He closed his eyes again, feigning sleep, though his heart stirred with curiosity.

Moments later, when he dared to look again, the woman was kneeling by Ilanag. Her hands were gentle, tilting his cousin’s head, pouring cool water into his parched lips. Ilanag murmured faintly, drinking greedily though half-asleep.

Nagashala sat up, startled.

The woman looked at him — a calm, steady gaze, her eyes dark as the river at midnight. She spoke a few words, low and musical. He did not understand. But then she shifted into another tongue — rough, guttural, strange. It took him a moment to realize what it was: the old Pisachi language, a tongue his father had once mentioned in passing.

Nagashala bowed his head politely, offering thanks. The words came awkwardly, but she smiled faintly at his attempt.

Her name was Ilucci, though those close to her called her Iluchi with affection. She lived nearby, in a settlement of craftsmen, she explained. She had seen their horses tied beneath the tree and had come cautiously, wondering if the travelers were friend or foe. Finding them in distress, her compassion had overcome her caution.

Nagashala, relieved and grateful, lifted Ilanag onto his shoulder and followed as Ilucci beckoned. She moved with confidence through the forest, leading them toward her home. Later he returned briefly to untether their horses and bring them along.

The settlement was modest, but alive with craft. Skins were stretched to dry, pots of dyes simmered over fires, and children darted through the lanes with laughter that seemed to chase away the heaviness of the wilderness. Ilucci’s mother welcomed them with cautious kindness, her eyes lingering on Ilanag’s frail figure.

For three days they remained there. With herbs and knowledge of forest cures, Ilucci tended Ilanag until color began to return to his face. Nagashala watched in silence, admiration growing for her quiet strength.

She was no ordinary woman. She was the last surviving daughter of her lineage, her brothers lost to beasts and battle. Yet she carried herself with dignity, and with pride in the work of her family. Her father, she told him, had been a master craftsman, skilled in tanning hides and adorning them with dazzling designs. Kings and merchants alike had vied for his creations — garments studded with jewels, cloaks that shimmered with gold embroidery.

Her voice warmed as she spoke of him. “Even the caves of Ajanta and Ellora  bear the memory of our hands,” she said. “My great-grandfather worked there, shaping colors and patterns upon the walls, leaving behind what no storm or king could erase.”

Nagashala felt a thrill at her words. The Ajanta and Ellora and Ellora caves! To him they were almost myth, whispered of in stories but never yet seen.

Her mother, listening, nodded. “It is not far. A day’s journey on horseback. If you go, you will see the truth of what she says.”

Something within Nagashala stirred — wonder, yearning, perhaps something more. The thought of standing before those painted caverns filled him with anticipation.

And yet, even as his heart beat faster with curiosity, another rhythm entered his life. The rhythm of conversation, of glances exchanged across firelight, of silences that spoke louder than words. Between him and Ilucci, in those days of shared meals and whispered stories, there grew a bond — hesitant, unspoken, yet undeniable.

It was a bond the forest itself seemed to witness, rustling its leaves in approval, carrying the scent of wild jasmine through the air.

Chapter Five

Days passed, and what began as gratitude ripened into something deeper. Nagashala and Ilucci spent long hours speaking beneath the trees, or walking by the stream. Sometimes she would show him the tools of her trade — knives honed for cutting hides, stones for smoothing, dyes mixed with secrets of bark and flower. He listened with the curiosity of a student, yet also with the quiet admiration of a man drawn to her spirit.

But admiration, in time, gave way to debate.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the forest and painted the huts in orange glow, the subject arose. Nagashala had watched her stretch a deerskin across a frame, preparing it for dye. The sight troubled him.

“Why do you cling to this craft?” he asked gently at first. “Cloth is the sign of a higher people. Cotton breathes, it absorbs sweat, it allows the body to live in comfort. Leather… leather is cruel. It is born of death.”

Ilucci paused, her hands stilling over the skin. She looked at him, her eyes flashing. “Cruel? You call it cruel because you listen to those monks who preach ahimsa while wrapped in silks that suffocated silkworms? You speak of purity in cotton while ignoring that it tears, it rots, it cannot protect. This”—she struck the hide with her palm—“this endures.”

Her voice was fierce, but it trembled with pride. “Our work has clothed kings, preserved scriptures, carried water through deserts. Tell me, prince—what book of your monks would have survived without the skin we prepared to hold its words? What wisdom would remain if not for the hands of people like us?”

Nagashala bristled, though her words struck true. “The future does not belong to skins stretched over frames. It belongs to woven cloth, to symbols of civilization. Look at the rulers, the merchants, the sages — all draped in cotton or silk. Leather belongs to the old ways, to a time of hunting and killing. The world must grow beyond it.”

Ilanag, sitting nearby, watched the exchange with wide eyes. He nodded hesitantly toward Ilucci. “But she speaks with reason, brother. In the cold of the mountains, or the rains of the jungle, cloth rots. Leather protects. It is not mere craft, it is survival.”

Nagashala turned sharply. “So you too would side with her against me?”

“I side with truth,” Ilanag said softly.

The fire between them flared higher than the flames. Ilucci’s cheeks flushed. “Then let us end this talk with a test. If you can prove before the world that cotton is greater, that cloth is the future, then I will lay down my craft. I will abandon it forever.”

The challenge cut through the air like a blade. Nagashala rose to his feet, his eyes blazing with the pride of youth. “So be it. Come with me, Ilucci. Travel with us. In every kingdom we pass, I will show you. When rulers and sages choose cotton above all else, you will see the truth.”

Her mother, listening in silence until now, let out a cry of protest. But Ilucci’s voice was steady. “I will go. The world will be witness.”

That night, as they prepared to leave, Ilucci’s mother wept, her hands trembling as she embraced her daughter. “You follow fire into fire,” she whispered. “But I cannot chain you. Go, child, if you must. But remember—craft is not a trade. It is blood.”

So it was that Ilucci mounted one of the horses, seated behind Ilanag, while Nagashala rode ahead. For the first time since his journey began, Nagashala felt not victory but unease. Her presence was both a triumph and a weight, a reminder that the path before them would not only test their bodies but also their hearts.

To be Continued