The Scrolls of the Nalanda’s Library: A Guardian’s Journey

The air above Nalanda glowed crimson, an unnatural dawn fueled by flames that devoured centuries of wisdom. The once proud Mahavihara, a library of unparalleled knowledge, was reduced to ashes under Bakhtiyar Khilji’s ruthless siege. It was not just a conquest of territory, it was the obliteration of a legacy. Khilji’s advisors had warned him of Nalanda’s influence, whispering that the Mahavihara was the spine of India’s resilience. Knowledge, they said, was power greater than any army, and Nalanda was its heart.

Khilji had come to realize this. “Control the mind,” he had once told his commanders, “and the body follows. These scholars don’t fight with swords, but with ideas that breed rebellion. Burn their scrolls, and you burn their strength.” His soldiers had marched into Nalanda not to plunder its treasures but to destroy what could not be replaced, the knowledge that unified a vast and diverse land - India!

Ira was barely twenty-two, her lean figure draped in the ochre robes of a scholar, her thick braid now unraveling as she stumbled through the forest. Her wide, determined eyes, once filled with curiosity, were now shadowed by the horrors she had witnessed. Her soft features, typically serene, were smudged with soot, her trembling hands clutching the leather satchel as though it contained her very soul. And in a way, it did. She was no ordinary scholar but a Samrakshini, a secret guardian tasked with protecting Nalanda’s most dangerous manuscripts. She had been trained for this moment her entire life, but nothing had prepared her for the sight of Ratnasagara, Ratnadadhi, and Ratnaranjaka, the Ocean, Sea, and Delight of Nalanda's primary libraries, consumed by fire. Millions of manuscripts, each a testament to human ingenuity, turned to ash.

It was her mentor, Vidya, who was a striking contrast to her, older, perhaps in her late forties, with sharp, angular features and a commanding presence that had commanded "Ira! You must take these and go. Now. Khilji’s men are close. They cannot have these.”

Vidya’s hair, streaked with silver, was always tied tightly behind her head, and her movements had the precision of someone who had spent a lifetime knowing exactly what needed to be done. Vidya had always been a pillar of strength and awe for Ira, the one person who had shown her that knowledge was both a burden and a gift.

Ira glanced down at the scrolls. The worn parchment held secrets that could reshape the world. There were texts on metallurgy that described forging steel stronger than any known to man. Others detailed techniques to harness water and wind, promising irrigation systems that could turn deserts into lush farmland. One scroll even held surgical procedures far beyond what most kingdoms could comprehend. But the most dangerous was the Scroll of Mind, a treatise on manipulating fear and faith to control entire populations.

“These are our weapons,” Ira whispered, her hands trembling. “Why are we running?”

Vidya grabbed her shoulders. “Because they will use them against us! Do you not see? Knowledge in the wrong hands isn’t liberation, it’s domination. Khilji doesn’t seek to learn from us. He seeks to own us. He will twist what we have built into chains for the world.”

Ira shook her head, her resolve faltering. “But hiding it feels like surrender.”

Vidya’s voice softened, though her eyes burned with urgency. “No, Ira. It is protection. Some truths must wait for those who can bear their weight. Would you give a blade to a child? These scrolls are more than blades, they are fire. In the wrong hands, they will burn everything.”

The sound of bootsteps echoed in the hall. Vidya pushed Ira toward a hidden passage. “Go. Take the southern gate. Run.”

Ira hesitated, but Vidya’s fierce gaze broke through. She turned and fled, tears streaking her smoke-covered face.

Days later, Ira found herself by a stream, exhausted and questioning her purpose. The weight of the satchel pressed against her, a constant reminder of what she carried, and what she had lost.

“You carry a heavy burden, young one.”

Ira spun around, clutching a branch in defense. A man stepped forward, his face hidden beneath a tattered hood. His voice was calm, almost soothing.

“Do not fear me,” he said, lifting his hands. “I was once like you, a scholar at Nalanda. I survived the flames.”

“Who are you?” Ira demanded, her voice trembling.

“My name is Ashvat,” he said, lowering his hood to reveal a gaunt, weathered face. “I escaped the massacre by hiding in the archives. I saw the scrolls you carry. I know their worth. You are not alone in this fight.”

Ashvat spoke of Nalanda with reverence, recounting memories only a true scholar would know. He described Vidya’s fiery debates in the council halls and the quiet nights when the library glowed with oil lamps.

“She told me to run,” Ira said, her voice breaking. “To protect these scrolls at all costs. But… I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

Ashvat sat beside her, his tone measured. “Strength lies not in knowing the answers but in asking the right questions. What troubles you most, Ira? The danger of losing the scrolls, or the burden of protecting them?”

Ira hesitated, staring at the satchel. “Both. I fear they’ll be used for destruction, but… I also fear I’m not worthy to carry them.”

Ashvat nodded, his eyes thoughtful. “Knowledge is neither good nor evil, Ira. It is the bearer who decides its purpose. The question is not whether you are worthy, but whether you are willing to bear that responsibility.”

The conversation continued as they traveled southward. Ashvat’s calm reasoning helped Ira understand the scrolls’ significance, yet doubts lingered in her mind. One evening, as they camped by a dense jungle, Ira finally voiced her concern.

“Ashvat, why did you survive when so many others didn’t?”

His gaze softened, but his voice was tinged with regret. “I stayed behind, thinking I could save something, anything. But in truth, I hid out of fear. The weight of knowledge, Ira, is often heavier than we realize. I failed to protect it then. I only hope I can guide you now.”

His words struck a chord in Ira. She saw in him the same conflict she felt within herself, the struggle between preservation and purpose.

As Ira traced the ancient scrolls by the firelight, her thoughts kept wandering, not just to the knowledge within them, but to Ashvat. His quiet confidence, the way he carried the scars of Nalanda’s destruction, and the depth in his voice that hinted at a lifetime of unspoken pain. It stirred something within her. She caught herself stealing glances at him as he tended to the fire, his features illuminated in flickering shadows.

Ashvat seemed lost in thought, his hands methodically feeding kindling to the flames. His presence was steady, almost grounding, but there was a wall she couldn’t breach. Ira wanted to know him beyond the scholar and survivor. There was a story in the lines on his face, in the way he hesitated before speaking of the past.

“Do you think we will ever find peace?” she asked suddenly, her voice breaking the silence.

Ashvat’s hands paused over the fire, and he looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. For a moment, he did not answer. Then, with a faint smile, he said, “Peace isn’t something you find, Ira. It’s something you make, moment by moment.”

She smiled back, though her heart ached at the distance in his tone. He wasn’t evading her question, he was keeping her at arm’s length. And yet, she could not help but feel drawn to him.

That night, as they camped beside the river, Ira hesitated before speaking. “Ashvat,” she began, her voice softer than usual. “Why did you choose to help me? You could have gone your own way.”

Ashvat looked at her, his expression unreadable. “Because I see in you what I wish I had been, a protector, not just a survivor.”

His words should have comforted her, but they left her feeling hollow. She wanted to ask more, to reach for the vulnerability she sensed beneath his calm exterior. But the moment passed, and Ashvat turned back to the fire.

When the time came to make her decision about the scrolls, Ira stood on the cliff’s edge, her heart pounding. Ashvat was behind her, silent but present, his gaze heavy on her back. She felt his support, his belief in her, but also the invisible barrier that separated them.

As she released the last Nalanda scroll into the river, a strange mix of relief and grief washed over her. She turned to Ashvat, her eyes searching his face for something, approval, understanding, perhaps even an unspoken feeling she dared not name.

“And now?” Ira’s voice was barely above a whisper, her hands trembling.

Ashvat sighed, his eyes reflecting the flames of a memory that still haunted him. “And now, I must tell you the truth. I am the original author of The Scroll of Mind...but I see it now for what it truly is, a weapon. In the wrong hands, it could enslave nations and allow tyrants to control the minds of people. There could be no greater sin. That’s why I hid it at Nalanda. And when the siege began, I stayed behind, hoping to witness its destruction. But fate brought it back to me.”

Ira stared at him, her emotions roiling. “Then why carry it now? Why not destroy it like the others?”

Ashvat’s gaze hardened, though his voice remained steady. “Because I realized that destruction is not always the answer. Knowledge, even dangerous knowledge, has its place. The world may one day need this scroll, but only in the hands of someone wise enough to wield it.”

Ira’s breath caught, the weight of his words settling into her chest. She wanted to scream, to accuse him of arrogance, but the fire in his eyes stopped her. She saw, for the first time, the full depth of his burden, not just the guilt of his past but the unbearable weight of knowing the future might demand his creation.

Ashvat broke the silence, the faintest shadow of emotion flickering in his expression. “I will need to keep moving Ira. There is always more to learn, more to protect.”

“And me?” she asked, the words escaping before she could stop them. Her cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze.

Ashvat’s face softened, his reply gentle but distant. “You have your path, Ira. And it’s brighter than you realize.”

The morning sun bathed the forest in golden light as Ira adjusted her empty satchel. Ashvat stood a few paces away, watching her. For a fleeting moment, she thought he might say something, anything, that would bridge the distance between them.

But instead, he simply said, “Take care, Ira.”

“You too,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

As the forest swallowed Ira’s silhouette, Ashvat finally turned away, his footsteps leading him in the opposite direction. For one last time he paused, gazing back toward the horizon where Nalanda once stood. He knew Ira and his paths had diverged, yet the bond they shared was eternal, a reflection of what Nalanda had always stood for: the resilience of truth and the unity of seekers across time. He whispered into the wind, as if addressing the ashes of the great Mahavihara:

"The scrolls may be gone, but their light remains. In Ira’s courage, in my purpose, in every mind brave enough to seek knowledge, we are Nalanda"