CHAPTER 1: THE UNEARTHED MYSTERY As dawn’s early light gently caressed the verdant fields of Tamil Nadu, a mosaic of vibrant greens and earthy browns unfolded, signalling the joyous onset of Pongal, the much-revered harvest festival. Shaktivel, a diligent farmer of 35 years, emerged from his slumber, beating the sun to its daily ritual. He pushed open the wooden door of his quaint hut, stepping into the crisp, cool embrace of the morning air. His heart swelled with silent prayers of gratitude for the imminent bountiful harvest, a testament to his year-long toil. With steady strides, Shaktivel approached the cattle shed, where his oxen, Raja and Mani, stood in stoic anticipation. He lovingly adorned their robust necks with garlands of marigolds, their orange hues vivid against the oxen’s earthy tones. Their horns received a decorative touch with paint in striking shades of red, green, and yellow, symbolising prosperity and vitality. “Today, I pay homage to you, my steadfast companions, for your invaluable role in nurturing our cherished crops,” Shaktivel whispered affectionately, his hands gently caressing the animals. Raja responded with a playful nudge, a silent plea for his favourite treat. A chuckle escaped Shaktivel as he fed the oxen bits of sweet jaggery, then led them out to the pasture. The sun, now peeking over the horizon, bathed the fields in a golden hue, awakening the village to a day of festive spirit. Joyful exclamations of “Vanakkam! Happy Pongal!” filled the air as neighbours shared sweets and well-wishes, weaving a tapestry of community and togetherness. Upon returning home, Shaktivel was enveloped by the comforting aroma of Pongal sweet rice, a fragrance that evoked memories of past celebrations. Lakshmi, his wife, her voice a melodious harmony, sang an age-old harvest song, while Selvi and Kala, their daughters, diligently crafted intricate kolam designs at the doorstep, their hands weaving patterns of sacred geometry. The family gathered for their Pongal feast, the table a humble yet heartwarming spread. Each mouthful of the freshly harvested rice, sweet and nourishing, was a reminder of nature’s generosity. Laughter and anecdotes flowed freely, further cementing their familial bond, an invisible thread woven through generations of tradition. Later, Shaktivel found himself drawn to the solitude of his fields. Standing atop a hillock, he surveyed his land – modest yet invaluable, a legacy of his forefathers. The rice stalks swayed gently in the breeze, a golden sea whispering stories of perseverance and hope. As he prepared to begin his day’s work, an unexpected obstacle underfoot halted his stride. Curiosity piqued, Shaktivel knelt down, uncovering an ornate stone structure, its circumference adorned with cryptic etchings and symbols in a language alien to him. At its centre lay a small, circular handle, inviting yet mysterious. “What secrets do you hold?” he pondered, gazing at the artefact. His mind wandered to legends of the ancient Pallava dynasty, whose architectural marvels still dotted the landscape. Could this be a relic from that era, a forgotten piece of history unearthed in his own backyard? Seeking wisdom, Shaktivel consulted the village elder, Raman, a living encyclopedia of local history and folklore. Raman, with furrowed brows and a pensive gaze, admitted his unfamiliarity with the artefact but warned against the recklessness of disturbing ancient powers. That night, Shaktivel’s home was quiet, but his mind was anything but. He delved into the depths of his grandfather’s collection – old texts, maps, and scrolls, each a fragment of a bygone era. Amidst the faintly lit pages, a sketch resembling the portal’s carvings emerged, its accompanying text an indecipherable whisper from the past. Haunted by dreams of ancient rituals and enigmatic kingdoms, Shaktivel awoke in a cold sweat, a torrent of unanswered questions flooding his thoughts. In the following days, the stone portal became the village’s focal point, sparking debates and fears about its origin and potential consequences. The villagers, their faces etched with concern and curiosity, turned to Shaktivel for guidance. Respecting the communal sentiment, Shaktivel resolved to reinter the portal, choosing not to meddle with the unknown. Yet, the portal’s enigmatic allure tugged at his heartstrings, awakening a dormant curiosity. That night, under the silvery gaze of the moon, Shaktivel stood before the portal, its intricate carvings casting eerie shadows. His life, thus far anchored in tradition, now wavered on the brink of a profound revelation. Back home, Lakshmi and their daughters intuited his inner turmoil. Their words, warm and reassuring, stoked the embers of his resolve. Empowered by their unwavering support, Shaktivel’s decision crystallised. Under the cloak of night, he returned to the field, torch in hand. The portal’s carvings flickered mysteriously in the torchlight, a silent siren call to the unknown. Grasping the handle, he braced to step beyond the familiar into a realm of ancient secrets and undiscovered truths. CHAPTER 2: THROUGH THE VEIL OF AGES Shaktivel stood before the ancient portal, its carved symbols flickering in the torchlight. This artefact had slumbered beneath his family’s soil, its mysteries untouched by time. Now, it awaited him.  Shaktivel inhaled deeply, steadying his racing heart. His life of tradition and familiarity in his quiet village seemed worlds away. With each passing moment, his hesitation faded. Destiny had unearthed this portal, and he would not turn away from its call.  Reaching out, Shaktivel grasped the central handle. At his touch, ethereal light suffused the carvings. They began to glow and pulsate as if brought to life by his unspoken beckoning. Shaktivel shielded his eyes from the hypnotic illumination - a mesmerising spectacle that seemed to hint at the portal’s arcane powers. When the light softened, Shaktivel saw the opening of the portal had expanded. He could only gaze in awe for a few moments before the pull became irresistible. With cautious steps, he crossed the threshold. Instantly, he was enveloped by a vortex of kaleidoscopic light and sound. Shaktivel felt his body floating weightlessly, propelled across the cosmic channels of time itself. It seemed to last an eternity, and yet no time at all.  With a sudden rush, the whirlwind released him, and Shaktivel collapsed onto solid ground, his senses reeling. As he gathered his bearings, an unfamiliar cacophony washed over him - raucous voices, animal sounds, music mingling discordantly. Shaktivel lifted his eyes and was jolted alert.  He found himself in a bustling marketplace, surrounded by people in ancient robes, speaking a lyrical language he could not comprehend. Towering stone temples loomed in the distance, and exotic spices and foods filled the air. This was clearly no place Shaktivel had ever travelled before. But his studies gave him the first anchor - the attire, the architecture, all whispered of Ancient Rome. His portal had somehow transported him far across time and place. As Shaktivel ventured tentative steps into the crowd, his simple cotton tunic drew curious glances amidst the flowing Roman robes. He felt utterly adrift as he was buffeted every which way. Each of his senses was under assault by the smells, sounds and frenetic energy of this celebration.  For it was clear a festival of some sort was underway. Colourful banners fluttered from windows as citizens in ceremonial dress paraded down the streets. The air rang out with music from fantastical instruments unlike any Shaktivel knew. People laughed and cheered, displaying an exuberance that was worlds apart from his quiet village. Shaktivel passed stone statues adorned with flower wreaths, where crowds were gathering. A priest stood watch as youths lashed women with strips of goat hide. Another priest held a blade high, ready to plunge it into the heart of a snowy ram.  Shaktivel realised he had arrived in the midst of Lupercalia, the ancient Roman festival honouring fertility and cleansing. The foreign rituals surrounding him underscored how far he was from anything familiar. Caught in the momentum of the crowd, Shaktivel felt himself being pushed and jostled violently. Suddenly, he was knocked to the dusty ground. Dazed, he looked up to see a troupe of figures dancing merrily past, not even noticing him. Their world was not his own. As Shaktivel struggled to his feet, dusting off his tunic, he felt eyes upon him. A group of Roman citizens stood staring and gesturing at him aggressively. “Get out, beggar!” one yelled in coarse Latin. “We don’t want your kind here!”  Shaktivel realised that his appearance marked him an outsider. Perhaps they mistook him for a vagrant or a thief. He tried to explain, but his words only came out as a torrent of Tamil. The Romans advanced towards him, their intentions clearly hostile. Shaktivel braced himself, terrified and powerless. Just then, a commanding voice called out, “Stop right there!” The crowd turned to see a powerfully built Roman man pushing through them.  “Back to your revels, citizens. Let me deal with this foreigner,” he said with cool authority. Though anxious, Shaktivel felt relief at his intercession. Up close, the Roman’s rugged, sun-weathered face and earth-stained tunic marked him as a farmer or labourer.  “I am Lucius Rufius,” he introduced himself slowly. “I gather you are a stranger to these lands. Come. I will extend hospitality to you as befits our traditions.” Unsure but deeply grateful, Shaktivel allowed himself to be led by Lucius through the streets until the raucous sounds of Lupercalia faded. They arrived at a humble farmstead, with acres of fields and olive groves unfurling before a modest villa.  Lucius showed him around the homestead, miming actions to convey meanings. Shaktivel saw storerooms brimming with grapes, grains, produce, and cattle lowing softly in their pens. Though rustic and unfamiliar, it reminded him of his own agrarian upbringing, stirring the first real pang of homesickness within him. As the day passed in a blur of new sights and sounds, Shaktivel tried his best to communicate with his generous host. He pieced together sentences from the Latin he had gained from his grandfather’s texts. Lucius, in turn, attempted a few words of Shaktivel’s language picked out hesitantly but earnestly.  Though stilted, a warm camaraderie began blossoming between the two men, bounded by the singular kinship of those who work the land for their sustenance. By dusk, Lucius’ family had returned to the villa. His wife Aurelia and sons, though puzzled by their strange guest, welcomed him kindly.  When night fell, Lucius invited Shaktivel to join them for the evening meal by the hearth. Though the spiced meat and fish were unknown flavours to him, the act of sharing nourishment warmed Shaktivel’s heart and eased his lingering anxiety.  As he lay down to sleep in a room Lucius had graciously offered, Shaktivel felt the first true stirrings of hope. The stars outside his window seemed arranged in unfamiliar constellations so far from his home. But he knew with certainty that the Hand of Fate had led him to Lucius and shown him friendship across the farthest boundaries of time and place.  That night, Shaktivel dreamed not of the home he left behind but of the wonders that awaited him in the days to come in this new world. CHAPTER 3: TRIALS IN THE TEMPORAL EXPANSE Shaktivel awoke to sunlight streaming through the window of the small room in Lucius’ villa. For a moment, he thought he was home until the unfamiliar sounds of morning rituals in Ancient Rome filtered in. Gone were the rooster calls and temple bells of his village - instead, he heard servants bustling about, chanting morning prayers to Roman deities.  Shaktivel quickly rinsed himself using the Roman-style bathing urn and got dressed. He was eager to join Lucius out in the fields to learn the ways of Roman farming.  “Salve, my foreign friend!” Lucius greeted warmly as Shaktivel approached him. “Come, let me teach you how we till our soil here.” Shaktivel struggled clumsily with the heavy Roman plough and hoe, so different from his simple hand tools back home. But he persevered, motivated to contribute to the crops that sustained his new friend’s family. At noon, they halted to share a simple meal. Laughing good-naturedly at Shaktivel’s inexperience, Lucius said, “Do not worry, my friend. Soon, you will farm as well as any Roman!”  Rejuvenated, they resumed work until Shaktivel noticed the lengthening afternoon shadows. As he prepared to return to the villa, a merchant crossed his path. Remembering the tradition of his village elders, Shaktivel gently grasped the man’s elbow in a simple gesture of amiability.  The man instantly recoiled, face clouded in anger. “How dare you lay a hand upon me, you foreign parasite!” he yelled.  Shaktivel quickly realised his blunder—such familiarity was a breach of conduct here. Profusely begging pardon in broken Latin, he narrowly appeased the incensed merchant. Lucius tactfully steered him away, suppressing a grin. “Customs vary like the winds, my friend. You will learn,” he reassured. Indeed, Shaktivel slowly began navigating the endless subtleties of Roman culture. Each day, he devoted himself to perfecting his Latin with help from Lucius’ kindly family. Aurelia, in particular, took Shaktivel under her wing, patiently coaching him in vocabulary. “Very good!” she praised as he successfully asked for more garum sauce in Latin during dinner. Her steady guidance was helping Shaktivel traverse this new linguistic territory. In his free time, Shaktivel discreetly observed Roman religious ceremonies, noting the prayers offered to Jupiter, Juno, and other deities. The chants evoked the Hindu puja rituals of his childhood. He felt gratified to find familiarity amongst the foreign. One night, after a long day of work, Lucius and Shaktivel sat by the hearth, sharing a flagon of wine. Lucius spoke of his soldiering days, while Shaktivel wistfully described his village’s harvest celebrations. They traded stories deep into the night, bridging the gulfs of time and space through shared human experience. “My friend, let us combine our soils,” Shaktivel proposed. “I will teach you agricultural techniques from my land.” Thus, Shaktivel demonstrated alternate irrigation methods and strategic inter-cropping. Lucius lent him cartloads of Roman mulch. Together, they nurtured the fields, blending Rome and India’s ancient wisdom. When news spread of Shaktivel’s role in increasing yields, Lucius beamed with pride. “Join me tonight for a feast with my fellow Romans. They wish to meet the foreign magician who conjures such bounty!” At the feast, Shaktivel hesitated at first among so many curious gazes. But Lucius’ family embraced him like one of their own. Slowly, he found his voice, conversing haltingly with the astonished guests about his village and customs. Their initial wariness melted into sincere warmth. One afternoon, while walking home from the fields, Shaktivel noticed a small Roman boy dart into the path of a runaway oxcart. He lunged forward and snatched the child away seconds before collision. The boy’s grandmother showered Shaktivel with tearful gratitude, hailing him as a hero. That evening, as Shaktivel lay under the Roman night sky, he traced the outlines of familiar constellations from home, taking a strange new shape here. Like those stars, he too had journeyed far, bridging impossible distances to find kinship with these people. Smiling, he drifted off to sleep and dreamed of Tamil Nadu.  A few mornings later, Shaktivel noticed an unusual gloom hanging over the market. “People seem to be falling ill with some mysterious affliction,” Lucius whispered grimly.  They overheard fearful gossip about a rapidly spreading plague. Stalls and streets were noticeably emptier. An air of tension and mistrust pervaded as Romans shrank from contact with each other. When Shaktivel and Lucius returned home, they found the family pale and shivering in the plague’s insidious grasp. Shaktivel’s chest clenched with anguish for his dear friends. He immediately brewed a tonic using medicinal herbs Aurelia kept in her stores. That night, the household was fraught with worry as the symptoms worsened. Shaktivel remained constantly at Lucius’ side, feeding him broth and changing cold compresses. Lucius thrashed in feverish nightmares while Shaktivel stayed up tirelessly nursing them all. He would not lose this family to the shadowy clutches of pestilence. At last, as the first light crept into the chambers, the fevers broke. Colour returned to Lucius and Aurelia’s cheeks. The children began complaining of hunger. Laughing with relief, Shaktivel rushed to prepare a simple breakfast. Their recovery kindled a spark of inspiration. Perhaps the traditional remedies of his village could protect others from this plague! For the first time since he arrived in Rome, Shaktivel felt purpose, a sense that his destiny had led him here for this very moment. CHAPTER 4: THE ALCHEMY OF HEALING As the first rays of the sun crept over the horizon, Shaktivel awoke with newfound purpose. The Roman plague had claimed enough victims. Today, he would begin his quest to cure it using the herbal wisdom of his homeland. Closing his eyes, Shaktivel mentally sifted through the trove of traditional remedies he had learned from his village elders. Fresh neem leaves for purifying the blood, tulsi for calming fevers... the possibilities swirled. But he would need local Roman herbs as substitutes.  “Lucius, my friend, will you accompany me to the marketplace?” Shaktivel asked. “I must gather medicinal plants if I am to craft a cure.” Lucius readily agreed, moved by Shaktivel’s determination. At the marketplace, Shaktivel pointed eagerly at bundles of herbs. “This sage - does it share properties with my tulsi leaf?” Lucius helped him procure cloves of garlic, elderflower, and other plants vaguely resembling Shaktivel’s ingredients. Their next stop was the library of Antonius, a scholar well-versed in ancient medicinal texts. Unfurling crumbling scrolls, Antonius traced his fingers over faded illustrations of herbs alongside their properties.  “These plants were used by early Roman healers,” he explained. “I hope the wisdom of ancients past aids you, noble visitor.” Shaktivel bowed respectfully. Safely back in Lucius’ villa, Shaktivel meticulously organised his precious herb collection and fired up the brazier to begin brewing tinctures. As vapours rose from his simmering concoctions, he added pinches of this, dashes of that, invoking healing chants of Kanda Shasti Kavacham. The first results were bitter disappointments - rank potions that did more ill than good. Shaktivel silently apologised to his forefathers for his failure. But he refused to surrender. There were more herbs and more ratios to try.  Lucius kept vigil with him late into the night. “You have unlocked the mysteries of time itself, my friend. Surely, this plague stands no chance against your wisdom.” Heartened, Shaktivel persisted. Finally, as dawn’s rosy fingers stretched across the sky once more, divine inspiration struck. Shaktivel combined the Roman sage and cloves with his ginger and neem in the perfect alchemic blend. The resulting potion gave off a healthy aroma. Lucius inhaled, hopefully.  “This is it, my brother. I can feel it,” Shaktivel declared. With steady hands, he administered a draught of the tonic to each ailing family member. Now, they could only wait and pray for the cure to take effect. The household held its breath through the endless night. Fear thickened the air – fear that Death’s shadow still loomed. But as sunlight illuminated their faces, the colour seemed to return to their cheeks. Cautious joy spread as the potion gradually restored them all to health. “Praise mighty Jupiter, you have a gift from the Gods!” Aurelia cried. When word spread of Shaktivel’s miraculous cure, Romans descended upon Lucius’ home, desperate for a draught of this elixir. To each, Shaktivel diligently administered the precious medicine until the plague was purged from the community.  The Roman Senate hosted a feast in Shaktivel’s honour. In grateful tones, they extolled him as a saviour blessed by Fortuna Herself. Overwhelmed, Shaktivel accepted their praise with humility. But in his heart, he thought only of his quiet village. Memories of his family and home beckoned him back across the oceans of time. On his final night in Rome, Lucius embraced Shaktivel tightly. “My true brother, though we hail from different eras, our souls are intertwined for eternity,” Lucius said, his voice thick with sorrowful affection.  Shaktivel walked slowly through the streets of this ancient city that had become a second home. He etched every detail into his memory like hieroglyphs in stone - the fruit sellers’ cries, children playing knucklebones, matrons gossiping around the communal fountain.   At dawn, he arrived with Lucius at the spot where the mystical portal had first delivered him into this era. Now, it would guide him home. Lucius gripped Shaktivel’s shoulders.  “I know not what fate awaits you beyond this gateway. But go in peace, brother, and know that you will forever remain in our hearts.” With a final look, Shaktivel stepped into the portal. Blinding light enveloped him once more. When it cleared, familiar voices and aromas washed over him. Tamil! Turmeric! His eyes welled up as he beheld his village before him. Destiny had called him across the oceans of time, but now, he had found his way back home. CHAPTER 5: THE HARBINGER OF RENEWAL A brilliant flash of light subsided, revealing to Shaktivel the familiar expanse of his fields in Tamil Nadu. The rich aroma of Pongal sweet rice wafted on the breeze as his village’s harvest festival continued under the bright sun. Shaktivel stood stunned, scarcely believing he had crossed millennia in the blink of an eye. Just this morning, he had departed ancient Rome through the mystical stone portal. Now he was home.  “It is a miracle!” cried a voice. Shaktivel turned to see his wife Lakshmi rushing toward him, shock and elation mingling on her face. “But how is this possible?”   As more villagers gathered, staring in amazement, Shaktivel recounted his extraordinary odyssey through time to the land of ancient Rome. He described vividly the marvels he had witnessed in that era, from the grand Lupercalia festival to Lucius’ humble farm.   The villagers listened, spellbound and incredulous. Some nodded in solemn belief, while others shook their heads sceptically. But Shaktivel had not returned unchanged. Though his soul was still anchored in this soil, his mind had expanded its horizons to encompass distant epochs. Just as the last echoes of his tale faded, a gloom fell upon the crowd. Word arrived from a neighbouring village of a mysterious new illness which left its victims fevered and pale as ghosts. Anxious murmurs arose. It was the spectre of the Roman plague, somehow manifesting across centuries. But this time, Shaktivel was armed with the knowledge to combat it. He immediately gathered tulsi, neem, ginger, and other herbs from his stores. With steady hands, he blended them into the curative Roman elixir he had once crafted for Lucius’ family. The first to receive this remedy was a young boy racked with violent chills. As the sun set over the anxious village, the boy finally fell into a restful sleep. By morning, he was cured and able to partake in the Pongal feast. Acclaim for Shaktivel’s skills as a healer travelled rapidly. Soon, villagers arrived from distant towns bearing their sick in autorickshaws. Each patient emerged revitalised by Shaktivel’s remedies and spiritual wisdom. Tales abounded of the miraculous man blessed with the gift to transcend time and heal manifold afflictions. Though honoured, Shaktivel remained the same humble farmer at heart. He dedicated his days to passing on his medicinal knowledge, reminding all who sought him out that the key to wellness lay in nature’s bounty and the balance of the elements. During Pongal, Shaktivel proudly showed the village children how to fashion little clay lamps as the Romans did to decorate the festive cow. He shared spices and herbs native to ancient Rome, which he had brought back. Together, they prepared a Pongal dish incorporating flavours and traditions from lands afar. The day after the festivities, Shaktivel planted a neem sapling overlooking his fields. As he watched it sway with the promise of growth, he knew it would symbolise the timeless bond between healing, nature and festivities. One day, he hoped there would be a Pongal where people of all lands could celebrate the passage of seasons together. Whenever Shaktivel gazed out at the spot where the mystical portal lay buried, he marvelled at the miraculous twists of fate. Destiny had chosen him to voyage deep into antiquity, collect its pearls of wisdom, and return to enrich his people. It mattered not that his humble village existed centuries away from Rome. Human joys and sorrows flowed between both eras like an eternal river. Now, as an elderly sage, Shaktivel enjoyed seeing his knowledge take root in younger minds. He taught the village boys about Rome’s advanced irrigation methods. The girls learned to embed medicinal herbs in candles to craft aromatic remedies. Shaktivel’s timeless legacy was spreading shade and blossoms over future generations.   At the close of each Pongal, Shaktivel stood before the hidden portal and closed his eyes, envisioning people of all distant eras celebrating life’s renewal as one. He knew someday, through the seeds of wisdom passed between cultures, this dream would grow into a bountiful harvest for humankind. With a contented smile, he turned and walked slowly home as evening fires lit up the skies over his beloved Tamil Nadu.   Penmancy gets a small share of every purchase you make through these links, and every little helps us continue bringing you the reads you love!