It was just another humid summer morning in Kolkata when twelve-year-old Aarav Bose opened his eyes—not to the usual ceiling fan spinning lazily above his bed, but to a sky swirling with golden clouds.
“What the—?!” Aarav stumbled to his feet. The ground beneath him wasn’t wooden flooring but a mossy surface that shimmered faintly, like moonlight caught in grass. All around him were towering trees with silver bark and violet leaves, whispering like they were alive.
He pinched himself. It hurt.
“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone here?”
Only the wind replied, carrying with it the soft sound of sitar music and bird calls that didn’t belong to any species he knew. Curious and nervous, Aarav stepped forward, parting vines that moved aside without him touching them.
After some time, he reached a serene lotus pond. In the center, floating above the water, was a glowing mirror the size of a dinner plate. It hung in the air without strings, and its surface shimmered like water under moonlight.
As Aarav approached, the mirror brightened. His reflection appeared, but something was different—his eyes were older, wiser, and a white tilak marked his forehead.
“Welcome, Aarav,” said the reflection. “You have entered the Realm of Shankara—the land between dreams and memories.”
“Is this a dream?” Aarav asked.
“That depends,” said the reflection with a smile. “Do you believe in magic?”
Aarav paused. “I guess I do now.”
“Good. You’ve been chosen. A great threat has escaped this realm—the Kalakaal, a shadow that feeds on forgotten stories and lost memories. It’s leaking into your world, darkening minds and hearts. Only one who remembers the power of stories can stop it.”
“Me?” Aarav blinked. “But I’m just a kid. I forget where I leave my socks!”
The mirror shimmered, then showed scenes from his life—his mother frying luchis in the kitchen, his grandfather telling bedtime stories, his friends playing cricket on the street. Then, a black shadow crept into each memory, swallowing colors, turning joy into silence.
“I’ll do it,” Aarav said, fists clenched. “How do I stop it?”
A majestic white tiger with glowing blue eyes rose from the pond. “I am Vyom,” it said. “Guardian of the Lotus Mirror. I will guide you.”
Aarav climbed onto Vyom’s back, and together they soared—yes, soared—above floating temples of Varanasi suspended in the sky, through forests where ancient rishis meditated, and across cities made of crystal and gold.
Each place they visited held fragments of forgotten Indian tales—pieces of the Ramayana, Panchatantra, stories of Tenali Raman, Birbal, and more. Aarav listened, learned, and carried the stories with him. With each tale remembered, a piece of the Kalakaal’s darkness weakened.
In the jungle ruins of Dandakaranya, he met a talking parrot who told him of a cursed riddle once whispered by Ravana himself. Solving it granted Aarav the courage of Hanuman. In the Sand Palace of Thar, he uncovered the last riddle of King Vikramaditya, earning the gift of cleverness.
But the Kalakaal was not idle. It sent shadows to follow him—creatures made of smoke and silence. They attacked him with whispers of doubt: You’ll forget. You’ll fail. You’re just a boy.
When Aarav felt fear creeping in, he would touch the one-rupee coin in his pocket, the one his grandfather gave him. It always felt warm, like a tiny sun, reminding him of home.
Finally, Vyom brought him to the Cave of Echoes in the Nilgiri Hills. Inside, all light was swallowed by shadow. “This is the heart of the Kalakaal,” Vyom warned. “Here, you must face your greatest fear.”
Aarav stepped inside, clutching his coin. The cave echoed with laughter, his own voice from old memories. Then it turned darker—his voice crying, angry, lost.
A mirror appeared in front of him—this one cracked, distorted. It showed him older, bitter, forgetting who he was. “This is your future if you forget your stories,” the Kalakaal whispered. “Forget your past. Forget your name. Just give up.”
Aarav’s legs trembled. The darkness closed in.
Then he remembered the bedtime story his grandfather told him—about a boy who turned into a star because he never stopped believing. Aarav smiled.
“I remember who I am,” he said, voice steady. “I am Aarav Bose, storyteller’s grandson, and I carry every tale you’ve tried to erase!”
The coin in his hand blazed with golden light. From it, stories burst forth—scenes of gods and kings, animals and wise fools, all swirling around him like a cyclone of memory. The Kalakaal screamed and cracked apart, its shadow dissolving into the earth.
When Aarav opened his eyes, he was back in his bed in Kolkata. The ceiling fan spun above, and his mother was calling from the kitchen.
He looked at his palm. The coin was still there, but now it shimmered faintly blue, like the Lotus Mirror.
At breakfast, Aarav stared at his plate of luchis and aloo tarkari, wondering if it had all been a dream. But when he reached for the salt, a small lotus petal floated down from nowhere and landed beside his glass of milk.
His mother didn’t notice it.
Neither did his little sister, humming a Bollywood tune as she doodled on the wall.
Only Aarav could see it.
That night, under the blanket, he pulled out his old diary and began to write—not homework, not cricket scores—but the stories he had gathered. The tale of the flying temples, the whispering trees, the riddle of Vikramaditya, and the talking parrot who loved mangoes.
As he wrote, the pages glowed faintly, as if the Realm of Shankara lived on through his pen.
Maybe it had all been real. Maybe it still was.
Aarav didn’t know if he’d ever return to that magical world, but he was sure of one thing: stories were powerful, more than anyone knew. They could chase away darkness, bind people together, and maybe—even change the world.
He glanced at the mirror on his wall.
For just a second, it shimmered.
That night, under the blanket, Aarav pulled out his old diary and began to write—not homework, not cricket scores, but the stories he had gathered. The tale of the flying temples, the whispering trees, the riddle of Vikramaditya, and the talking parrot who loved mangoes.
As he wrote, the pages shimmered faintly, glowing like fireflies in the dark. His pen felt guided by something greater, as if the Realm of Shankara itself was helping him remember.
Then he heard it—soft, distant music. The sitar.
He looked up. The mirror on his wall shimmered, just for a second, like water catching moonlight.
He smiled. The realm was still there.
Maybe he wouldn’t go back tomorrow or the next day. But someday, when the world was in need of stories again—when shadows crept into people’s minds and made them forget who they were—he’d be ready.
Because now, he was not just Aarav Bose, the boy from Kolkata.
He was a Storykeeper.
And as long as even one child remembered the old tales—the cleverness of Tenali Raman, the courage of Rani Lakshmi Bai, the wisdom of Birbal—the Kalakaal could never win.
Aarav gently closed his diary, the coin still warm in his hand, and drifted off to sleep.
And somewhere, far beyond dreams, a silver tiger walked beside a lotus pond and whispered, “Well done, Aarav.”
Submitted by
Maisha Gera
TAFS
VI - C
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