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David Christopher Lane, Ph.D, is a Professor of Philosophy at Mt. San Antonio College and Founder of the MSAC Philosophy Group. He is the author of several books, including The Sound Current Tradition (Cambridge University Press, 2022) and the graphic novel, The Cult of the Seven Sages, translated into Tamil (Kannadhasan Pathippagam, 2024). His website is neuralsurfer.com

The Cult of the Seven Sages

Book Two. The Quest Begins

David Lane

NOTE: It is best to read or listen to the first book in this series to understand Book Two. Here are the necessary links before you proceed. 1. YouTube Version. 2. Graphic Novel Version.

Preface.

A little over two years ago, I unveiled The Cult of the Seven Sages, Book One, as a graphic novel—and soon enough, a South Indian publisher secured the rights to translate it into Tamil. Readers were eager for a sequel, assuming it was just around the corner. In reality, however, this new installment took far longer to incubate than I ever anticipated. Looking back, I see now how that extra time was a blessing in disguise. Not only am I at last ready to share the second book, but I'm also laying the groundwork for three more stories in this ever-expanding saga.

But there's more here than a simple continuation of the narrative. Alongside The Cult of the Seven Sages, Book One, and The Stigmata in Chinatown—and a few other tales—I'm sowing the seeds for a personal revelation I had this past year, one I truly believe will upend everything we think we know about ourselves and our universe. If that sounds grandiose, it isn't meant to be mere hype. Rather, it's a vital context to prepare you for the startling possibilities that lie just ahead.

My hope is that these metaphorical journeys will nudge us into new mental frontiers—ones we once dismissed as unimaginable or impossible. Because, in my view, what's coming is nothing short of unprecedented. And I want you right there with me, ready to explore those uncharted horizons.

1. A Tremor in the Dawn

Jasbir Kashani stood at the mouth of his Himalayan cave, where the first breath of sunlight glistened off the ice-crusted ledges and distant snowfields. It had been many months since he'd walked into that cold sanctuary; at the time, his mind was a tumult of questions, dreams, and half-formed revelations. Now, stepping outside, the pristine cold bit into his skin, and he felt an odd sense of both rebirth and displacement. He blinked against the brilliance of the morning sun, overwhelmed by how much sharper and more vibrant the world seemed compared to the twilight gloom of his cave.

He'd taken refuge in this remote mountain retreat to cultivate the discipline he believed necessary to unlock certain esoteric truths. Long had he suspected that the world was on the cusp of a greater shift, a reawakening of ancient energies. Yet he had never anticipated what he discovered during one of his deepest meditative visions: that he himself was the first of the Seven Sages, the reincarnation—or modern embodiment—of the ancient rishi Bhrigu. This knowledge was an epiphany he had not sought. Rather, it seized him without warning, as though some cosmic puzzle piece had been forced into place.

The real jolt was not any sense of grandeur; it was awe mixed with humility, an almost crushing awareness of the responsibilities bound to that legacy. In the weeks that followed, his meditations took him through labyrinthine layers of memory, bridging present and past lives, and forging a spiritual link to the other Sages of legend. Always he saw them in fragments: a young boy with a cat, a monk in saffron robes carrying a lotus, a driver in an autorickshaw humming a Sanskrit prayer. These were shards of a larger mosaic that pointed to the six other Sages, scattered across the globe, each unaware of their identity.

His final days in the cave were spent unraveling a riddle that had come to him in a dream—a short stanza etched onto a mental “fragment of rock” in his vision:

When the lotus meets the lion's gaze,
A saffron robed star reveals the way.
Search below the gem of golden hue,
Where an ancient lineage awaits anew.

He'd studied these lines with the intensity of a scholar confronted by an undeciphered manuscript. The single phrase “lion's gaze” sparked possibilities about Sri Lanka—famously associated with the lion symbol on its national flag and known historically as the “Resplendent Isle.” The mention of a “lotus” drew him to Buddhism's iconic flower. And “the saffron robed star” seemed an unmistakable reference to a Buddhist monk, for saffron robes were typical monastic attire. But the puzzle remained frustratingly incomplete; each word shimmered with multiple meanings. “Gem of golden hue” could refer to something precious or legendary in that region—perhaps a golden temple, or a famed gemstone deposit. He wrestled with doubt: was he interpreting the lines correctly? Might “lion's gaze” be something else entirely, like a mythical Chinese lion or a reference to a local coat of arms?

Still, the intuitive threads converged on the idea that somewhere in Sri Lanka, a hidden Sage resided—someone who, like Kashani, carried an ancient spiritual lineage reawakened in modern times. Certain old texts he'd read hinted that one of the rishis had a close link to the Theravada Buddhist tradition. And so, with mixed certainty and lingering questions, he set his resolve. Stepping out of the cave that morning, he knew his pilgrimage must lead him south.

Behind him, the Himalayan peaks glistened like silent sentinels, as if bidding him farewell. Though the crisp air tasted of freedom, a subtle tremor ran through it, as though the cosmos itself exhaled in relief—Kashani was moving at last. With staff in hand and only a small satchel of personal effects, he began descending the narrow, switchback path. Now he returned to a world that felt oddly alien, for in solitude he had lived closer to the intangible realm than to everyday reality. Each footstep stirred a swirl of anticipation. He was no longer merely a wandering seeker; he was, if the visions were correct, the first Sage called to gather the other six.

Little did he know that each step also carried him closer to the orbit of Rakshasa, a malevolent entity determined to thwart the reassembly of the Seven Sages. If the demon had its way, the Sages would remain scattered, and humanity would succumb to deeper ignorance and chaos. Over the coming weeks, Kashani would find that riddles and illusions were not just metaphors but living obstacles—and that his own faith in his inner guidance would be tested at every turn.

2. The Mysterious Inscription

Kashani's journey down from the high passes was a multi-day odyssey through drastically shifting altitudes and cultural landscapes. In the upper reaches, pine forests towered, and a chill wind howled. Lower down, the climate gentled, rolling into lush green valleys where small settlements dotted the countryside. At each hamlet, he encountered curious villagers, most of whom knew him at a glance for what he outwardly appeared to be: a wandering sadhu in saffron robes. Some offered him food or shelter; others simply nodded and moved on.

His typical conversation, as he sipped hot chai by roadside stalls, went something like: “Brother, do you know of any sacred signs, omens, or riddles that mention someone called a hidden sage?” His question was met with blank stares or polite shrugs. Often, people suggested that if there was anything mystical to be found, it would lie deeper in the mountains—ironically behind him—or in old temples across the subcontinent.

However, in a dusty eatery near Dehra Dun, an older man with clouded eyes beckoned him over. “You are asking about strange inscriptions, yes?” The man's voice trembled as he spoke. “I once saw an inscription in Sanskrit chiseled into a stone near the path to a ruined shrine. The letters were ancient. I managed to copy the opening lines before the stone was defaced.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a torn scrap of paper, its edges yellowed. On it, spidery handwriting revealed a short stanza:

Where the half-moon kisses the sea,
The second of the Seven shall awakened be.
Cloaked in humility, hidden from fame,
He knows not that the cosmos whispers his name.

Kashani's hands shook slightly as he read. “Half-moon kisses the sea” conjured the shape of a crescent, possibly the teardrop outline of Sri Lanka on a map. The lines also spoke of a hidden figure who was “unaware of his cosmic name.” This echoed the sense that the second Sage would not know his destiny until discovered.

The man, peering at Kashani's expression, added, “I never knew who wrote it, but local myth claims a wandering yogi left such riddles centuries ago, anticipating the rebirth of certain holy souls.”

“Thank you, friend.” Kashani folded the paper and placed it in his satchel, heart pounding. This wasn't mere coincidence. The “half-moon” reference again pointed to Sri Lanka. In a flash of clarity, the puzzle from his dream riddle converged with this new clue. He felt both exhilaration and the gnawing weight of responsibility. If Sri Lanka indeed housed the second Sage, the riddles were practically commanding him: Find this person before it is too late.

That evening, he booked a bus to the next major junction, planning a chain of bus-and-train rides that would eventually bring him to the southernmost tip of India. From there, he would cross to Sri Lanka, or “Ceylon,” as many older texts and spiritual commentaries still called it.

Yet even in his excitement, another emotion threaded through his mind: doubt. The riddle was open to interpretation. Might “half-moon kisses the sea” mean something else? What if he was veering off course? This uncertain feeling nagged at him like a subtle ache, compelling him to pray for guidance at every turn. Still, he clung to the conviction that these signs were too aligned to be coincidence. He had to proceed—and hope he was not walking into a dead-end or, worse, a trap laid by darker forces.

3. The Sea and the Lion

The winding route took him over highways and through bustling Indian cities until he finally reached Rameswaram on the southeastern coast. The transition from Himalayan peaks to the heat and humidity of Tamil Nadu was shocking. Sweat beaded on his brow as he stepped off the bus. Fishing boats bobbed by the shore, pilgrims thronged temple entrances, and the robust tang of saltwater pervaded the air.

A recollection came to him: “When the lotus meets the lion's gaze.” Sri Lanka's flag famously featured a golden lion, a symbol of the island. Buddhism's iconic lotus, the reverence for the Buddha's teachings—everything pointed across the sea. Still, he couldn't chase away the small voice reminding him that riddles often had multiple layers. Was the “lion's gaze” purely symbolic, or was there a specific temple or statue of a lion in Sri Lanka he should seek?

He spent an afternoon exploring Rameswaram's shoreline, asking around at the ferry dock. A ticket-seller wearing thick spectacles and a turban gave him a thoughtful look. “You're heading to Talaimannar, I see.” Kashani nodded. The man continued, “That crossing can be a challenge. Currents can be unpredictable. But if your purpose is strong, you'll make it safely.”

A flicker of concern passed through Kashani's mind: Rakshasa—the demon that opposed the reassembly of the Sages—might try to disrupt the journey. He stepped onto the ferry with cautious optimism, aware that his path was set. A strange thrill gripped him: he was leaving the Indian mainland, stepping toward the unknown.

Halfway across, the ferry rolled on a sudden wave, and for an instant, he glimpsed a shadow that flickered across the deck, though no other passenger seemed to notice. His heart skipped a beat. Was it his imagination, or had some malevolent presence manifested briefly in the corner of his vision? The shape vanished almost immediately, but it left an aftertaste of dread. Mustering his inner calm, Kashani recited a silent prayer, hoping to repel whatever specters might lurk.

Eventually, the ferry docked at Talaimannar, the northern tip of Sri Lanka. Kashani disembarked amid the bustle of porters and fishermen, feeling a profound dislocation: another culture, another land. A lifetime earlier, he might have felt a sense of novelty or tourism. Now, every nerve hummed with the possibility that the second Sage was somewhere here on this island—and that each step might hold a fresh clue or a fresh threat.

4. Talaimannar's Enigma

Talaimannar was simultaneously quaint and alive with commerce. Tamil, Sinhala, and even English intermingled in the air, a testament to the island's layered history. Kashani's saffron robes made him a curiosity among locals, but not an unwelcome one. He scanned the docks and roads leading inland, uncertain where to start.

A small shrine beneath a sprawling banyan tree caught his eye. Approaching it, he noticed a time-worn stone with faint inscriptions. He carefully brushed off the moss. The lines were in a mix of Pali and Sinhala script, reminiscent of old temple carvings he'd seen in books:

Seek the saffron flower in the kingdom of crowns,
Beyond the city of relics where the old towers abound.
There the star of compassion quietly shines,
Unknowing, unseeing, the second Sage reclines.

“City of relics.” Sri Lanka's ancient capital, Anuradhapura, was famed for being home to the Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic in Kandy—though that particular relic is actually in Kandy nowadays. But Anuradhapura was historically renowned for relics, gigantic stupas, and a lineage of kings (the “kingdom of crowns”). Could the lines mean Anuradhapura, with its many ancient ruins and spiritual heritage? Possibly.

Kashani stood for a long time, trying to parse alternative meanings. He recognized that the island was dotted with numerous cities of religious significance—Polonnaruwa, Kandy, Anuradhapura—any of which could be considered a “city of relics.” But Anuradhapura was known for its towering stupas, the “old towers abound.” This likely fit the riddle best.

Feeling a surge of renewed direction, he asked around for transport. Soon he hired a battered Jeep from a local guide named Indran, who offered to drive him halfway across the island to Anuradhapura. Despite Kashani's lingering doubts—was he overconfident in his reading of the riddle?—he had no better lead. A nagging caution told him that the real test wasn't merely reaching Anuradhapura but interpreting the next layer of cryptic clues that might appear.

5. Overland to Anuradhapura

The road to Anuradhapura took them past wide tracts of farmland, small hamlets dotted with coconut palms, and the occasional roadside shrine. Indran, the driver, was a talkative man who peppered Kashani with questions: “What brings you here? Are you a pilgrim or a researcher?” Kashani, wary of revealing too much, simply said he was seeking an esteemed monk rumored to reside in the interior.

Indran nodded sagely. “Many monks roam Sri Lanka, sir. We are a land rich in Buddhist heritage. But it is also war-scarred in parts. Some illusions remain in the minds of the people—fears, regrets. It's a strange place for spiritual quests.”

Kashani merely smiled. He sensed that Indran might not fully understand the deeper significance. Nevertheless, he appreciated the man's local knowledge. Over the hours, they glimpsed distant stupas, their white domes shimmering in the tropical sun. Monks in saffron robes walked along the roadside, alms bowls in hand. It struck Kashani that among these monks, one—maybe more—could be the Sage he sought. But how to identify him?

He consulted the paper from the old man in Dehra Dun, rereading:

Where the half-moon kisses the sea,
The second of the Seven shall awakened be.
Cloaked in humility, hidden from fame,
He knows not that the cosmos whispers his name.

Yes, these lines suggested the second Sage was not some famous, well-known abbot but rather a humble figure, possibly living in obscurity. Coupled with the banyan tree inscription, it made sense that this unknown monk (the “saffron flower” or “star of compassion”) was in or near Anuradhapura, “beyond the city of relics.”

Late in the afternoon, they arrived at Thuparamaya Dagaba, one of the oldest stupas in the region. The aura of devotion was tangible; pilgrims chanted in Pali, the smell of incense drifted in the warm breeze, and bells tolled at intervals. Indran found a local guesthouse for Kashani to stay in, promising to return in the morning if needed.

Alone in the shadows of the ancient stupa, Kashani felt a gentle pull—an intangible sense that he was close. Yet the question remained: Where exactly? He knelt on the grass, eyes half-closed in silent invocation. A swirl of doubt complicated his concentration. Was his entire trip founded on partial guesses? Could he have read the riddle incorrectly? Or was the demon, Rakshasa, sowing fear in his mind?

6. A Stupa's Secret Warning

That evening, as dusk settled over the archaeological park and most pilgrims departed, Kashani walked around the stupa. He noticed a small stone slab partly hidden by overgrown weeds. The faint lines etched into it made his heart leap. Carefully pulling away some moss, he revealed a verse in archaic Sinhala, which he painstakingly translated with his background in related languages:

Beware the illusions that lurk in the mind,
The fierce demon's face in compassion you'll find.
Past the orchard where the brahmin birds call,
The saffron star awaits, unknowing of all.

His pulse quickened at the phrase: “The fierce demon's face in compassion you'll find.” He recalled that Rakshasa was said to be a master of disguises, capable of appearing as saintly or monstrous. The riddle was a warning: not all who appear compassionate may be so. Or perhaps it implied that the demon lurked even in altruistic guises, sowing confusion. Then the final lines mentioned an orchard where “brahmin birds”—possibly brahminy kites—call. These birds, known for their striking chestnut plumage, often soared around certain wetlands or orchard areas in Sri Lanka. The “saffron star” presumably referred to the hidden monk.

A wave of relief swept through Kashani. This new clue might precisely guide him: find the orchard frequented by brahminy kites. And there, presumably, the second Sage could be discovered. But the lines about illusions and a demon's face weighed on him. Would Rakshasa appear to him disguised as a fellow sadhu or a well-meaning monk? He shuddered, recalling that the demon was not just some ephemeral presence; it could shape reality through illusions, feed on doubt, and twist perceptions.

Still, the path was clearer than before. Determined, Kashani returned to his guesthouse. He would rise at dawn and search for such an orchard near Anuradhapura. Before sleeping, he offered a prayer for clarity, steeling himself for the likelihood of a direct confrontation with Rakshasa.

7. Overheard in the Market

Morning brought fresh resolve. Kashani walked to the bustling Anuradhapura market, weaving through stalls of fruits, vegetables, spices, and local crafts. The swirl of voices—Sinhala, Tamil, occasional English—was dizzying. He paused by a vendor selling carved wooden figurines. Nearby, two farmers were conversing in rapid Sinhala:

“I saw him again,” said one. “That reclusive monk who meditates near the orchard, where the big brown-and-white kites hover overhead. The villagers say he radiates some kind of aura.”

“Yes,” replied the other. “He barely speaks. Some claim he's lived there for months, unaware of how unusual he is. The orchard caretaker leaves him fruit and water, but he never asks for anything.”

Kashani's heart pounded. This was exactly the rumor he needed. Mustering his limited Sinhala, he politely interrupted and asked, “Where is this orchard? The one with the monk and the big birds?”

The farmers were delighted to help. “You go three kilometers north along the dirt road toward the reservoir. There's a sign for a mango orchard. Follow the path behind it to a small creek, and you'll see him.”

After thanking them profusely, Kashani hurried off. Within an hour, he found the orchard—a quiet grove of mango trees, their green leaves rattling in the gentle breeze. Overhead, indeed, soared a brahminy kite, chestnut wings glinting in the sun, white head shining. He took this as an auspicious sign. Following a narrow footbridge across a stream, he reached a modest clearing.

8. The Second Sage Revealed

There, seated cross-legged on a woven mat, was a young monk in saffron robes. His head was bowed, eyes closed in serene meditation. Next to him, a clay bowl held a single blooming lotus—fresh, pink, and seemingly out of place in the orchard's earthy tones. Kashani felt a deep resonance: this scene matched one of his cave visions—a saffron-robed figure and a lotus, surrounded by an aura of quiet stillness.

He approached softly. As if sensing his presence, the monk opened his eyes. Their gazes locked, and Kashani sensed an instant recognition, as though some invisible chord strummed between them. Bowing respectfully, he said, “Venerable sir, I have come a long way in search of a hidden teacher. Yet you may not know that you are the one.”

The monk stood, confusion etched on his face. “I am Sarath,” he replied in gentle Sinhala, switching occasionally to halting English. “I am not a teacher, just a humble follower of the Buddha's path.”

Kashani hesitated before offering his revelations, aware that it might overwhelm Sarath. But he pressed on: “I believe you are the second of the Seven Sages foretold in ancient lore, reborn in our era to guide humanity. I, too, am one of these Sages.”

Sarath's initial reaction was disbelief—eyebrows knit, lips parted. He stammered, “A Sage? Me? I left my family to pursue a simple monastic life. I have never performed miracles. I hardly speak with anyone.”

But as Kashani recounted the multiple riddles and inscriptions—from the dream lines about “lotus meets the lion's gaze” to the banyan tree verse about “the saffron star”—Sarath's expression shifted. The swirl of half-remembered dreams and inexplicable insights he'd had during meditation sessions returned to him. He recalled a vivid dream in which he chanted prayers in a language older than Pali, which he'd never studied. He also remembered fleeting images: a cosmic tapestry, seven shining lights, a demonic silhouette. All of it had bewildered him.

The truth, once offered, rang within him like a half-known melody. With trembling hands, he lifted the lotus from his clay bowl and stared at it. “Strange that every morning I pick a lotus from the stream, placing it here… without fully understanding why. It felt like a sacred act. Maybe it was part of that cosmic design.”

In that moment, acceptance warred with self-doubt on Sarath's face. He confessed: “But how can I be certain? Isn't it possible we are misunderstanding symbols, reading signs where none exist?”

Before Kashani could respond, the orchard darkened. A sudden gust howled through the trees, and a chilling presence made the hair on Kashani's arms stand on end. They both turned to see a figure step from behind a tree trunk—a shadowy silhouette with flickering edges, as though reality itself refused to contain it. Its face was obscured by swirling blackness, but its eyes burned like ember coals.

A hissing voice echoed through the orchard: “Fools… your riddles will lead you nowhere. You meddle in cosmic energies beyond your control.”

Sarath felt a jolt of terror; the shape's aura radiated malevolence. Kashani recognized it: Rakshasa. Immediately, he clutched his rudraksha mala and began chanting an ancient protective mantra. Sarath, though shaken, joined with a Pali chant.

The demon's form flickered. It let out a guttural laugh. “You think you have found the second Sage, but your path is riddled with illusions. Abandon this quest, or suffer.”

With a final burst of dark energy, the shadowy figure faded into the orchard's gloom, leaving behind only the hush of rustling leaves. Sarath gasped, sweat beading on his brow. “What was that? A demon? A hallucination?”

Kashani placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “That was Rakshasa, the very force that seeks to keep the Sages divided. Your doubts fuel its power. But your acceptance of your role can diminish its hold.”

Though still trembling, Sarath closed his eyes and recited a Buddhist refuge prayer. A warm, subtle glow enveloped him, as if centuries of latent spiritual might awakened in that instant. When he opened his eyes, his expression was more resolute. “If my destiny is to serve as a Sage, then I will try. Please, guide me.”

9. A Twist of Doubt

The next day, the orchard caretaker and a few curious villagers bid Sarath farewell with blessings. He packed his few possessions into a small bundle—an extra robe, a battered copy of the Dhammapada, and a simple amulet from his former teacher. His heart was heavy leaving the orchard that had been his refuge, but he also sensed that to remain would be to deny the call of destiny.

Together, Sarath and Kashani traveled back to Talaimannar. The ferry crossing to India was rough this time—gray skies churned the waters, and at one point a massive wave nearly overturned a cargo crate on the deck. Sarath clutched the railing, a swirl of dizziness and dread overwhelming him. In his mind flickered the image of Rakshasa's burning eyes, as if the demon might rise from the waves themselves. Kashani stood close, humming a protective mantra.

They arrived at Rameswaram exhausted but safe. While finding shelter for the night, Sarath murmured, “So much is happening so fast. I hardly know what questions to ask.” He gazed into the distance, uncertain. “How can one monk—who barely understands his own awakening—be expected to help humanity?”

Kashani offered an empathetic nod. “I know the feeling. The revelations came to me abruptly too. This burden weighs on me every day. But each step clarifies a bit more. We must stay patient and open to guidance.”

Sarath managed a faint smile. Doubt still nibbled at him, but he took solace in Kashani's steady presence.

10. Farewell to the Orchard (and to Ceylon)

Two days later, they stood on the southernmost shore of India, gazing toward the horizon that vanished into the Indian Ocean. For Sarath, the land felt as foreign as it once felt for Kashani to be in Sri Lanka. Yet their immediate goal lay not in the south but in returning north, to uncover more riddles that might point them to the other Sages.

Traveling by train through Tamil Nadu, they endured crowded coaches, bustling stations, and sweltering heat. Sarath found the noise overwhelming, having grown used to meditative solitude. Meanwhile, Kashani wrestled with a new riddle that had been haunting his dreams at night:

The third awaits where the waters recede,
Amid ceaseless clamor and fleeting greed.
A humble charioteer on three small wheels
Guides the lost hearts, yet his truth he conceals.

He read it to Sarath during a lull in their journey. “The line about 'three small wheels' suggests an autorickshaw, doesn't it? And the mention of 'ceaseless clamor' could point to a bustling city like Mumbai.”

Sarath, recalling the chaos of the train station, grimaced slightly. “A place of fleeting greed—certainly a big city, steeped in commerce. Mumbai fits that description: vast, intense, always hungry for wealth. But it could also be Kolkata, or even some other metropolis.”

Kashani shrugged. “True. But my intuition says Mumbai. We'll verify once we get closer, perhaps by searching for more clues.”

Thus, with a purposeful pivot, they decided to head toward India's west coast, though the journey was neither short nor direct. En route, they briefly parted ways to handle personal errands: Kashani felt an inexplicable pull toward Amritsar, his mother's birthplace. Sarath, not wanting to impose, offered to wait in Delhi or continue with him—whichever Kashani preferred.

11. Homeward Interlude and Another Riddle

Eventually, both men arrived in Amritsar. Sarath was struck by the grandeur of the Golden Temple—its gilded dome reflecting in the sacred pool, the continuous hum of prayers, the devoted throngs. They volunteered in the langar, helping serve free meals to all visitors, regardless of faith or background. Amid the clatter of stainless-steel plates and the aroma of dhal and chapati, Sarath felt a deep kinship with these people who practiced such generosity.

Later, as they prepared to depart, an odd encounter occurred on a bustling street near the temple. A frail mendicant approached Kashani and pressed a small palm-leaf fragment into his hand. “For you,” the man croaked in Punjabi, then vanished into the crowd. The leaf bore a stanza in archaic Hindi:

When clay meets metal, a hidden wheel shall turn,
The Third is found where the tall towers burn.
Past seven gates of illusions galore,
The gem of humility stands at Fate's door.

Kashani and Sarath exchanged glances. “When clay meets metal” could refer to idol-makers, or some crafts area in a big city where clay and metal are used. “Tall towers burn” might evoke skyscrapers in the scorching summer sun. “Seven gates of illusions” could be a poetic way of describing the labyrinthine neighborhoods of a metropolis. More and more, the threads pointed to Mumbai—where Ganesh idols are famously crafted in workshops, where towers loom over crowded streets, and illusions (cinema, wealth, ephemeral dreams) abound.

This new riddle dovetailed eerily with the one mentioning the autorickshaw driver. The idea that the third Sage was “a humble charioteer” who “conceals his truth” made them wonder if this mysterious rickshaw-walla might not even know his own significance.

Although Kashani's spirit soared at the alignment of clues, doubt also gnawed at him again: what if they were missing a subtle twist? Riddles could be tricky. Yet the consistent references to an autorickshaw, a big city, illusions, and “clay meets metal” (Ganesh-idol-making plus the city's robust metal industries) all but shouted Mumbai.

12. An Unexpected Stop in Amritsar

For a day longer, they lingered in Amritsar, fulfilling Kashani's longing to reconnect with the memory of his late mother. She had once brought him here as a child, teaching him prayers in the Golden Temple's courtyard. The city was a swirl of personal memories for him: the glimmer of gold on the water, the warmth of prasad, the echo of kirtan. Sarath, though from a Buddhist background, found universal solace in the devotion that permeated the air.

At night, Kashani had an unsettling dream: a swirling vision of a demon in the form of a kindly monk offering him sweets. When Kashani accepted, the sweet turned to ash in his mouth, and he coughed violently, only to awaken in a sweat. The subtext was clear: beware illusions. In these precarious times, Rakshasa could twist the kindest faces into traps. He resolved to remain vigilant.

Finally, they boarded a train heading south. Though the route to Mumbai was circuitous, they welcomed the time to reflect. Sarath revisited his monastery training, practicing mindful breathing amid the cramped compartments and chanting softly for passengers who were unwell. Kashani quietly perused old spiritual texts, hoping to glean an edge in deciphering further riddles. Each carried in their hearts a tremor of anticipation—and a flicker of anxiety—about confronting whatever lay in Mumbai.

13. Arrival in Mumbai and the City's Dilemma

Stepping onto the platform of Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus in Mumbai felt like entering another dimension. The crush of people was astonishing: travelers hurrying in every direction, hawkers yelling, horns blaring. The swirling smell of street food, sweat, and diesel fumes assaulted their senses. Sarath clung to his small bag, overwhelmed.

Kashani, though no stranger to urban life, also felt the city's intensity. He recalled the phrase “amid ceaseless clamor and fleeting greed”—it fit Mumbai perfectly, a metropolis fueled by commerce, film glamour, and the dreams of millions hoping for success. They found a modest guesthouse near Byculla to rest. All around them, neon signs lit the night, and the rhythmic rattle of local trains ran late.

In the cramped room, Kashani laid out the riddle fragments they'd collected:

1. “When clay meets metal, a hidden wheel shall turn.”
2. “The Third is found where the tall towers burn.”
3. “Past seven gates of illusions galore.”
4. “A humble charioteer on three small wheels guides the lost hearts.”

“All signs point to a rickshaw driver,” Kashani mused, lighting a small incense stick. “But where do we start in this vast city of millions? The illusions are endless here—Bollywood, stock markets, labyrinthine slums.”

Sarath let out a weary breath, still adjusting. “Perhaps we visit places where clay Ganesh idols are made. There might be a neighborhood known for that. If the demon tries to mislead us, we'll rely on our intuition. But let's be systematic.”

They agreed to venture into the city's heart the next day, seeking out the famous idol-making districts near Chowpatty, Girgaon, or Colaba—areas known for crafts, workshops, and an abundance of rickshaws. The plan, however, felt shaky. Even a “systematic” approach in Mumbai was like searching for a single raindrop in a monsoon.

That night, sleep came fitfully. Kashani dreamed of swirling traffic, horns beeping incessantly, and a shadowy figure whispering riddles in his ear. Sarath tossed and turned, haunted by fleeting glimpses of Rakshasa peering from behind a billboard. Doubts multiplied, but both told themselves: we will find the third Sage, no matter the challenges.

14. Tracing the Riddles in Colaba

Early the next morning, they took a taxi to Colaba Causeway, a bustling promenade lined with stalls hawking jewelry, handicrafts, antiques, and street food. The energy was frenetic: hawkers insisting on deals, tourists browsing, locals hurrying to offices. Amid this chaotic tapestry, Kashani tried to sense the subtle pull of the riddles.

“When clay meets metal…” They encountered a small workshop where artisans were casting brass figurines and also shaping clay idols—some of Ganesha, others of local deities. The clang of hammer-on-metal rang out. Sarath pointed. “Clay and metal, side by side. This must be one manifestation of that line.”

A shopkeeper noticed their interest. He beamed. “Saab, looking for a Ganesh idol? Or maybe a statue of Krishna? I have many designs. Very auspicious.”

Kashani shook his head politely. “We're actually searching for a rickshaw-walla rumored to have… well, a special aura.”

The shopkeeper laughed. “Plenty of rickshaws around, sahib. You'll find them near the Regal Cinema area too—just walk down the road. Maybe you'll meet someone special.”

Regal Cinema—the name struck Kashani as potentially relevant to the “gates of illusions,” for cinema itself is the quintessential realm of illusions. Thanking the shopkeeper, they headed in that direction. Sarath recalled the riddle's line: “Past seven gates of illusions galore.” Mumbai's famed cinema culture could easily be one such “gate.” The puzzle-like nature of these riddles was maddening, each line open to multiple interpretations.

Upon reaching Regal Cinema, they found an entire row of autorickshaws parked along the curb, their drivers beckoning for fares. The area teemed with tourists heading to the Gateway of India, only a short distance away. This was prime territory for rickshaw business—but also prime territory for confusion. Which rickshaw driver was the one they sought?

15. A Cryptic Fare

Sarath scanned the drivers: men of various ages, some dozing in their seats, others sipping chai, some boisterously calling, “Madam, Sir, rickshaw?” None radiated an obvious spiritual aura. They approached a cluster of them to inquire, but the conversation quickly devolved into haggling. “Double meter, it's peak traffic!” they insisted.

Feeling a bit deflated, Kashani walked down the line, letting his intuition guide him. Then, at the far end, he spotted a battered autorickshaw with peeling paint. Its driver slept in the back seat, arms folded behind his head, as if uninterested in chasing fares. Something about his posture—a certain calm in the midst of chaos—caught Kashani's attention.

He tapped the side of the rickshaw. The driver stirred, blinking and rubbing his eyes. He was a slender man in his fifties, hair salted with gray. The name badge on the dash said “Omkar”, but the letters were faded. Omkar yawned. “Sorry, bhai, long night shift. Need a ride?”

Kashani glanced at Sarath. They both felt a subtle magnetism. “Yes,” Kashani replied softly. “Can you take us to Marine Drive?”

Omkar nodded. “Haan, baithiye.” They settled onto the worn seat, and Omkar navigated into the swirling traffic. To their surprise, within the rattling walls of this rickshaw, a sense of stillness reigned. Omkar was a careful driver, weaving through cars with uncanny ease, occasionally humming a tune under his breath. Sarath caught snippets of Sanskrit words in that tune—an invocation to Ganesha, if he wasn't mistaken. Yet Omkar wore no outward sign of religious training.

“Bhai,” Omkar remarked in Hindi, glancing back. “You two look like men of faith. One in a saffron robe, the other a Buddhist monk's attire. Are you on some joint pilgrimage?”

Sarath hesitated, not sure how much to reveal. “We're searching for… a spiritual path. Something hidden.” He felt an odd stirring in Omkar's presence. It was reminiscent of the orchard with Sarath's own aura—but more subdued, as if Omkar's deeper nature was wrapped in daily practicality.

Within minutes, they reached Marine Drive, the curving boulevard along the Arabian Sea. The city's skyline rose behind them in a jagged line, while waves lapped gently against the concrete tetrapods. Paying the fare, Kashani found himself reluctant to part ways so quickly. On a whim, he said, “Brother, would you join us for a cup of chai? We'd like to hear your story.”

Omkar shrugged, intrigued. “Why not? Time I took a break anyway.”

They walked to a nearby tea stall, sipping steaming glasses of sweetened tea. As the sea breeze played across their faces, Kashani introduced himself and Sarath, hinting that they were on a quest that involved ancient prophecies. Omkar listened politely, though he seemed skeptical.

However, when Kashani tentatively asked if Omkar ever experienced unusual insights or flashes of wisdom, the driver's eyes flickered with recognition. “Strange question. Sometimes passengers pour out their troubles to me. Odd lines of Sanskrit pop into my head, soothing them. It's bizarre—I never studied Sanskrit in school. But the verses just come. People think I'm some wise saint, but I'm just a rickshaw-walla trying to make ends meet.”

Sarath's heart thumped. The pieces were falling into place, yet it felt too obvious—like the riddle was pointing right here. Could it really be this man? Omkar seemed unremarkable, but then, so had Sarath before his awakening. Doubt reared its head in Kashani's mind. Was this a misdirection? Or was Omkar truly the third Sage?

16. Omkar's Revelation

They found a quiet bench overlooking the sea. Omkar, still somewhat guarded, recounted his life story: born in a slum, raising siblings after his parents died young, eventually buying a rickshaw to support his wife and children. He described nights when he'd experience vivid dreams of chanting in a language he didn't understand, and days when distressed passengers left his rickshaw inexplicably at peace. He wasn't boastful—it seemed he, too, was baffled by his own abilities.

Kashani gently explained: “These Sanskrit verses, these flashes of insight… we suspect you are one of the Seven Sages returned to this era. Each Sage is unaware at first. But you, Omkar-ji, you have the hallmark traits: spontaneous spiritual knowledge, the ability to soothe hearts without formal training. The riddles we followed led us straight to a humble charioteer with three wheels. That's you.”

Omkar's mouth fell open in disbelief. For a moment, he chuckled. “I'm no Sage. Look at me—I live in a chawl, earn barely enough for my family. Sages are revered saints or ascetics in Himalayan caves, no?” He cast a glance at Kashani's saffron shawl and Sarath's monk robes, as if to emphasize their difference in station.

Sarath placed a hand on Omkar's shoulder. “I used to think I was just a quiet monk, content in my orchard. But the truth came, and though it felt daunting, it also felt… right. Maybe it's the same for you.”

A swirl of emotion stirred in Omkar's expression—fear, longing, wonder. “I've had dreams of cosmic lights and a demon chasing me. I dismissed them as stress nightmares. Now you say I'm part of some ancient cosmic plan?” He sighed heavily. “My family depends on me. I can't abandon them to roam as a holy man.”

Kashani responded gently, “Being a Sage does not mean forsaking family. The rishis of old often had households or varied roles. The key is awakening to your higher purpose, not necessarily leaving your worldly life behind.”

After an agonizing silence, Omkar bowed his head. “There's a warmth in my chest telling me you speak truth. But… how do I accept something so enormous? A demon opposing me? A mission to guide humanity?”

“There will be doubts,” Sarath said. “Even now, I doubt my worthiness. But together, we can support each other. This is bigger than any of us alone.”

Tears glistened in Omkar's eyes. He inhaled deeply, as if taking courage from the sea air. “Alright. I may not comprehend it all, but I trust this feeling. If I'm truly the third Sage, then show me what must be done.”

Thus, with the waves crashing against Marine Drive as witness, the third Sage was awakened. A quiet, unassuming rickshaw driver named Omkar stepped into a cosmic destiny that would reshape his life—and perhaps the fate of many.

17. Rakshasa's Wrath and a Narrow Escape

No sooner had Omkar voiced his acceptance than a sudden crackle of energy coursed through the air. Streetlights flickered ominously. The hustle of people near the promenade continued unabated, but the three men felt a distinctly unnatural shift. A swirl of darkness manifested near a lamppost, congealing into the silhouette of Rakshasa once more.

Pedestrians unknowingly walked past, seemingly oblivious. But to the newly assembled Sages, the demon was all too visible—its eyes blazing red, mouth twisted in a snarl. A psychic wave of terror rippled outward, making Omkar's heart pound so violently he thought it might burst. “What… what is that?” he whispered.

Kashani and Sarath, more accustomed to the demon's aura, swiftly began chanting protective mantras—Kashani in Sanskrit, Sarath in Pali. The demon hissed: “You dare to awaken another? Your chain shall shatter; humanity will remain in darkness. Surrender now!”

Omkar, though trembling, tried to recall the spontaneous Sanskrit verses that sometimes bubbled up in him. He closed his eyes, focusing on a half-remembered prayer to Ganesha, the remover of obstacles. A faint luminescence emanated from his chest, as if an ancient wellspring was releasing a protective surge.

Rakshasa shrieked in frustration, unleashing a wave of intangible force that battered them. Kashani stumbled, nearly falling onto the concrete. Sarath gripped a metal railing, struggling to maintain his chanting. Passersby saw only three men apparently bracing themselves against the sea breeze. Some gave them odd looks.

Yet their combined resolve held firm, and the demon's shadowy form quivered. “This is not over,” it spat, voice raspy with fury. “All illusions bend to me in time.” Then it vanished, leaving a lingering stench of sulfur in the air.

Omkar's legs nearly gave out. “God in heaven… that was real! I saw it… felt it.”

Kashani steadied him. “Yes, Rakshasa is very real. Its illusions can twist minds and circumstances. Now that you've awakened, it sees you as a threat. We must be cautious.”

Sarath exhaled a shaky breath. “But we withstood it. Together, we're stronger.”

18. A Test of Faith

Over the next week, the newly formed trio hunkered down in Omkar's modest neighborhood. Sarath found the crowded living conditions challenging, so different from the orchard's peace. Yet he recognized the spiritual potency in compassion for daily struggles—neighbors hustling for daily wages, children squealing with laughter or crying out of hunger. Omkar introduced them to his wife, Lakshmi, who was bewildered by the sudden presence of two holy men in their tiny one-room home but welcomed them warmly. “My husband always had a kind heart. If you say he's special, I can believe it,” Lakshmi said, though she had no concept of the cosmic stakes involved.

Despite the close quarters, they bonded, each morning reciting prayers from their respective traditions. Omkar began to notice a subtle expansion of his intuitive gifts. Sometimes, he would sense a stranger's sorrow before they even spoke. He'd offer rides for free to those who were truly desperate. Word spread in the neighborhood that “Om-ji” had turned more spiritual, and some teased him, calling him “Baba Om.” He laughed it off.

Meanwhile, Rakshasa's presence still loomed. Minor mishaps plagued them: Omkar's rickshaw engine failing at the worst times, Sarath's nightmares intensifying, Kashani suffering sudden migraines of unknown origin. They recognized these as attempts by the demon to sow despair. Prayer and mutual support helped them weather each tribulation, but tension remained.

Kashani occasionally found himself second-guessing everything. Am I truly on the right path? The riddles had led him here, but what if he misread them? Could the final battles with Rakshasa be too daunting? Yet each time doubt flared, a flicker of conviction rose stronger. The mere fact that Sarath and Omkar had resonated so precisely with the riddles argued that they were on the correct track.

19. Riddles for the Future

One muggy afternoon, a knock came at Omkar's door. Lakshmi answered, and a man in a long kurta introduced himself as Chandrashekhar, a scholar from Delhi. He had heard rumors of “holy men” seeking Seven Sages and had spent weeks tracking them. Panting from the cramped stairwell, he bowed to Kashani, Sarath, and Omkar. “Please forgive my intrusion. I come with urgent news.”

After a brief exchange, Chandrashekhar revealed an ancient manuscript he carried. The folio, dusty and brittle with age, contained lines of Sanskrit referencing the Saptarishi in modern times:

From the city of illusions to the seat of the ancient flame,
The awakened must wander, their mission the same.
A demon shall track them, wearing godly disguise,
The cosmic game playing out before mortal eyes.

Chandrashekhar turned pages carefully, revealing hints about the fourth and fifth Sages—that they might be far from India's shores or in places with older spiritual lineages. The text warned of a time limit: “If the Seven do not unite soon, the illusions of Kali Yuga will spread unchecked, leading to deeper darkness.”

Kashani's stomach fluttered. They had only just awakened the second and third Sages, and now events pressed them onward with mounting urgency. Sarath reread the lines about the demon “wearing godly disguise,” reaffirming that Rakshasa could appear as a priest, a monk, or a saint. That realization made him uneasy; they would have to scrutinize every new ally they met.

Chandrashekhar added: “I've also heard rumors of Varanasi—the seat of ancient flame, referencing the eternal fire at the ghats—where an older trove of texts might elaborate on the remaining riddles. If you want to piece this puzzle together, that might be your next stop.”

Omkar frowned. “Kashi… that's a long journey from Mumbai. But if the riddles lead us there, we should follow, right?”

“Yes,” Kashani replied, eyebrows knitted in concentration. “We cannot wait for Rakshasa to tighten its grip. We must keep forging ahead.”

20. A Surprise.

That evening, the group meticulously studied Chandrashekhar's manuscript. Another verse caught their attention:

When the triangle is complete with the circle of grace,
Two more shall arise in a far-flung place.
Yet the seventh is hidden behind the door of fear,
Where the demon shall tempt with illusions dear.

The “triangle” might symbolize the three Sages now awakened—Kashani, Sarath, and Omkar—forming a triangular foundation. The “circle of grace” could hint at the synergy of their combined wisdom. Then, “two more shall arise in a far-flung place” suggested that the fourth and fifth Sages might be discovered simultaneously or in quick succession somewhere distant—possibly another country or region.

But the final lines about the seventh Sage behind the “door of fear,” guarded by Rakshasa's illusions, sent a chill through them all. Omkar shuddered. “If we're struggling against the demon already, how terrifying must it be when we confront it protecting that final Sage?”

Late into the night, they hammered out a plan. Chandrashekhar offered to guide them to Varanasi, as he had connections with local pandits who safeguarded rare manuscripts. Omkar worried for his wife and children, but Lakshmi, overhearing, said quietly, “If your destiny is this, I won't stand in your way. Just come home safely. My prayers go with you.”

In the final hours before they departed, Rakshasa made a small but chilling appearance. A swirl of darkness flickered under the door, accompanied by a mocking whisper: “Go wherever you please. I will follow.” No one else saw or heard it except the Sages and Chandrashekhar, but it sufficed to underscore the danger.

Morning arrived bright and humid. They boarded a train from Mumbai Central to Varanasi. Sarath gazed out the window at the receding skyline of tall towers. Omkar clutched an old cloth bag of personal belongings, heart torn between duty to family and duty to a cosmic cause. Kashani and Chandrashekhar consulted the manuscript, cross-referencing possible hints about the next destinations. Each felt the undercurrent of uncertainty, for riddles were notoriously deceptive. They might misread a line, losing precious time. Or they might walk into another of Rakshasa's illusions.

Still, they pressed forward. They had awakened three Sages; four remained scattered somewhere across the world's tapestry. The riddles had proven real, the illusions deadly, and the demon relentless. Yet for every doubt, an echo of faith rose in each man's heart, whispering that if all Seven united, they could tip the cosmic balance toward illumination rather than darkness.

As the train pulled out of the station, a hooded figure stood on the crowded platform, watching them depart. Beneath the cowl, two red, smoldering eyes followed the railway cars until they vanished from sight. A faint, inhuman laugh mingled with the din of travelers. Rakshasa would not yield, not until it was certain the Sages would fail.

And so ended their time in Mumbai, the city of illusions, where they had painstakingly deciphered riddles to discover a humble rickshaw driver who possessed a hidden spiritual lineage. The stage was set for the next leg of their journey: Varanasi, the ancient city of light and death, where the Ganges flows thick with legends. If new riddles awaited them there, they would soon learn whether they were prepared… or whether Rakshasa's illusions would grow even more lethal.

Despite their fears, the three awakened Sages—Kashani, Sarath, and Omkar—left Mumbai with a spark of hope. For now, at least, their synergy had thwarted the demon's worst attacks, and they were one step closer to fulfilling the prophecy of the Seven Sages. In the swirling chaos of the modern world, that was no small victory.

Yet the quest had only begun, and the mysteries—the labyrinthine riddles that demanded deeper insight and unwavering faith—still stretched out before them. Their next riddle might be the most cryptic yet, and the illusions would surely intensify. But the seeds of devotion, courage, and unity had been planted. Whether they would blossom in time to save humanity from the creeping darkness remained to be seen…

The train rattled away, carrying them toward an uncertain horizon. Far behind on the bustling platform, the malevolent presence lingered, whispering into the city's polluted air:

“They will fail. The illusions shall consume them. The gate of fear will never open.”

For the Sages, however, the dawn of a new chapter gleamed ahead—riddled with challenges but illuminated by the faint promise of a destiny too powerful to ignore.