Chapter 1
The Invisible Threads of Light
What is an achievement?
People work relentlessly, day and night, burning their youth away just to achieve something—to build a life worth living. In this vast world, everyone chases a different kind of success. Some accomplish goals just for themselves and their families. Then, there are a rare few who achieve things so monumental that the world remembers their names long after they are gone.
But detached from both these groups, there lies a third kind of people. These are the forgotten giants. They gave humanity inventions that changed the very fabric of daily life, making the world run effortlessly. Yet, billions of people using their creations every single second have absolutely no idea who these creators were, or that they ever existed.
December 2, 2020: Shoreline Lake, Silicon Valley, California
The sun was setting over Mountain View at Shoreline Lake. It was the kind of evening where people came to wash off their day’s exhaustion and blend into nature.
Near the water, a nineteen-year-old girl was laughing into her phone, talking to her boyfriend. "I wish you were here, the view is absolutely breathtaking!" she said, her voice bursting with excitement.
On the screen, thousands of miles away, her boyfriend smiled. "Show me then! Don't keep the sunset to yourself."
With a single tap, she switched to a video call. "Look," she whispered, panning her camera across the shimmering lake. Together, separated by oceans but connected in an instant, they watched the sun dip below the horizon.
A few yards away, an elderly couple in their sixties were nervously stepping onto a small boat for the very first time. The husband, holding a sleek smartphone, looked around and waved to a young man sitting nearby.
"Excuse me, son," the old man called out with a warm smile. "Could you take a quick picture of us? We want to send it to our daughter before we lose our courage and capsize!"
The young man laughed, took the phone, and captured the moment. “Say cheese!”
We live in a world where capturing memories and sharing them instantly with loved ones across the globe is as natural as breathing. Nobody questions how it happens. It just does.
Sitting on a solitary wooden bench a little further away, a ninety-four-year-old man watched these scenes unfold. His hands were wrinkled, trembling slightly as they held a leather journal and a fountain pen. Looking at the young girl on the video call and the couple taking photos, a gentle, knowing smile crossed his face.
He looked down at his journal and began to write, his pen scratching softly against the paper.
Suddenly, a harsh, dry cough shook his fragile frame. He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth, gasping for breath. Seeing his master struggle, his driver rushed over from the parking lot, his face pale with worry.
"Dr. Navin! Sir, are you alright?" the driver asked, gently holding his shoulder. "The evening air is getting too cold. We should go back home."
The old man nodded weakly, closing his diary. "Yes... let’s go home, Joseph."
Woodside Area, San Francisco, California
The car pulled up to a beautiful, quiet house in the Woodside area. As the old man stepped inside, leaning heavily on his walking cane, his son and daughter immediately rushed to the hallway. Their faces tightened with anxiety.
"Father! You look exhausted," his daughter said, checking his temperature with her hand. "Is everything okay? You shouldn't have stayed out so late."
The old man let out a soft, wheezing laugh to calm them down. "I am perfectly fine, my dear. It’s just a minor cough. A little bit of rest, and your old man will be as good as new."
His son gently guided him by the arm toward his bedroom. "No more writing tonight, Father. Just sleep. We’ll bring your dinner upstairs."
"Alright, alright," he smiled, nodding submissively.
But the moment the bedroom door clicked shut and his son’s footsteps faded down the hallway, the old man bypassed the bed. He slowly walked over to his study desk, turned on the small lamp, and opened his journal once again. The stubborn spark in his eyes hadn't aged a day.
He dipped his pen in ink and began to write:
"I am sitting here tonight, filled with an overwhelming sense of joy. Seeing my invention serve humanity every single day is the greatest reward. So what if the credit for this creation went to someone else? I never held any bitterness in my heart, nor will I ever. My contribution is woven into that light, and for me, that is more than enough. I don't ask for much... I only wish that when I am gone, history remembers my work, and perhaps, remembers me..."
Suddenly, his breath hitched. A sharp, unbearable tightness gripped his chest. The fountain pen slipped from his frozen fingers, leaving a dark blotch of ink on the final word.
Clatter.
The sound of the pen hitting the floor was followed by a heavy thud as his head fell onto the desk.
Hearing the unusual noise from the hallway, his children burst into the room. "Father! Father, wake up!" his son cried out, shaking his unresponsive shoulders. But the old man was completely unconscious.
Redwood City Hospital, California
The silence of the emergency room was broken only by the rhythmic, clinical sounds of medical machinery.
Beep... Beep... Beep...
The old man slowly opened his heavy eyelids. The bright, sterile white lights of the hospital blinded him for a moment. He felt the cold plastic of an oxygen mask pressed against his face, forcing air into his tired lungs. He looked around and realized where he was. He was trapped in a hospital bed, surrounded by monitors tracking his fading heartbeat.
They say that when a person reaches their final moments, their entire life flashes before their eyes like a movie reel.
As the monitor continued its steady beep, the hospital walls seemed to fade away. The sterile smell of medicine turned into the scent of wet mud and blooming mustard fields. The heavy mist of California dissolved, and the warm, golden sun of Punjab began to rise in his mind.
The old man closed his eyes, ready to let the memories take him back to where it all began.
Light can bend; interesting concept.