The days after that night passed like fragments of an unfinished dream. The world around Arjun looked the same — the narrow lanes, the low hum of rickshaws outside, the smell of masala from the kitchen — yet something beneath the surface had changed. He felt it in the way the air touched his skin, in the brightness of colors, in the quiet pulse behind his eyes.
He didn't tell anyone what had happened. How could he explain the streak of light that had entered his mind, or the voice that had spoken from nowhere? So he kept silent, pretending everything was normal. But as the weeks went by, normal became impossible.
He began to notice things he'd never noticed before — the pattern of rust on the balcony railing forming perfect symmetry, the rhythm of footsteps downstairs repeating like a coded sequence. When he opened his old physics textbook, the equations no longer seemed complicated; they felt alive, breathing, rearranging themselves in perfect clarity. What once took him hours to grasp now appeared instantly complete, as if his mind had been waiting for this awakening.
He memorized entire pages at a glance. Ideas formed faster than he could write them down. But he was careful — very careful. He knew instinctively that showing his brilliance too soon would only invite questions he couldn't answer.
At breakfast one morning, his mother noticed the sparkle in his eyes. "You're looking stronger these days, beta. Maybe that night really did something good to you."
Arjun smiled. "Maybe it did, Ma."
His father folded his newspaper and nodded with quiet pride. "Must be the clean air and fresh discipline. Our boy's becoming a man."
Arjun nodded again, hiding his thoughts behind a calm face. Let them think it was effort, or faith, or recovery. The truth would stay his alone — for now.
Each night, when the others slept, he studied. Books in physics, biology, programming — anything he could find. He read with a hunger that bordered on obsession, feeding a mind that seemed limitless. By the second month, he could recall every formula he'd ever seen; by the third, he could combine them into new ones. He felt his body healing too. The tremor in his hands faded, the pain in his joints dulled, and by the fifth month, he could walk up the terrace stairs without pausing. The doctors called it miraculous. His parents called it prayer. Arjun called it preparation.
He knew what he had to do: protect the secret. Let the world believe his intelligence grew slowly, through meditation and discipline. It was the safest lie — one even his family could believe.
So meditation became his shield.
Every morning, he sat cross-legged on a thin mat in his room, facing the rising sun. His mother often peeked through the door, smiling softly to see her son at peace. "Yoga suits you," she would say. "It's good for the mind."
And it was — though not in the way she imagined.
At first, the meditation brought only quiet. He followed the breathing patterns his mother had once taught him, focusing on each inhale and exhale until thoughts dissolved. But one morning, something shifted. The world around him blurred, then vanished, replaced by a vast and silent expanse.
He was standing in a place that felt both infinite and intimate — an endless hall where the air shimmered like liquid glass. Floating all around him were countless books, glowing faintly, their covers etched with symbols that changed shape with every heartbeat. The light had no source; it seemed to come from the books themselves.
Arjun took a step forward, his bare feet touching what looked like translucent ground made of flowing numbers and shapes. He reached out to one of the books, and as his fingers brushed its cover, his mind flooded with knowledge — not in words or sentences, but in raw understanding. He saw structures of reality, principles of matter, fragments of lost sciences. It was beautiful and terrifying.
Then a voice echoed gently through the stillness, the same voice he had heard that night on the terrace:
"The seeker returns. You have opened the gate of understanding."
He looked around, but there was no one. Only the hum of light and the faint whisper of turning pages.
The voice spoke again, calm and ageless: "The Library grants what the mind earns. Learn in your world; unlock in this one."
In that moment, he understood the rule. The Library within him wasn't a gift of instant knowledge — it was a system, a structure. The more he learned in the physical world, the deeper this Library would open to him. Each mastery in study, each true comprehension, would reveal new shelves, new worlds of knowledge beyond human grasp.
When he opened his eyes again, sunlight spilled across the floor. Hours had passed, though it felt like minutes. He sat still, breathing slowly, absorbing what he had seen. From that day forward, meditation became his portal.
Soon, everyone in the neighborhood knew Arjun as the boy who had healed himself through yoga and discipline. Neighbors admired his dedication; teachers praised his quiet brilliance. Even the local doctor remarked, "It's the power of the mind. Not everyone can achieve such recovery."
Arjun would only smile, folding his hands politely. Inside, he knew the truth — that each time he closed his eyes and sank into stillness, he was walking through corridors of impossible knowledge, touching ideas no human had touched before.
And as he sat beneath the soft morning light, eyes half closed, the silent hum of the Library called to him again. The path ahead was infinite, and he was only on the first page.