Chasing Qualia

"Non omnis moriar."

— Horace, Odes

It was a fine evening for the world. But for Sunny, it was an evening of horror.

At just twelve years old, he had been sent to live with his grandparents. He felt abandoned, afraid, and overwhelmed by a loneliness he couldn’t name. He cried quietly in his grandmother’s lap, wondering why his parents had left him there. Was he not enough?

His grandfather—a man who rarely showed emotion, but always knew what to say—spoke in a tone that told Sunny he understood.

"Come, son. Let's go sit on the roof for a while."

Sunny didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay curled in his sorrow, but he respected his grandfather too much to say no. Wordlessly, he followed.

They lay on the rooftop floor, gazing up at the stars in silence. After a while, his grandfather asked,

"What do you see when you look up there?"

"Stars, the moon... the sun, I guess," Sunny replied, childlike and honest.

"That's the obvious answer. But what do you really see?"

"I don't know," Sunny murmured.

"Do you want to know what I see? I see hope. I see answers to every question I ever had, and the peace I always chase."

"But what if that peace doesn’t exist?" Sunny asked.

"It does. Maybe you’re just not looking at it right."

His grandfather’s voice shifted to something lighter. "Let me tell you a quick story."

Sunny noticed the faintest smile on his own lips. It was the first in days.

"There was once a king—a mighty king from the lands of Ajmer. His name was Prithviraj Chauhan. He was a hero to his people. By his side always stood his trusted friend and mentor, Chand Bardai. Whenever the king faced doubt or sorrow, Bardai’s words brought him calm.

Together, they expanded their empire. But in the Second Battle of Tarain, Prithviraj was captured by Muhammad Ghori and taken to Ghazni. There, the people jeered as the proud king was thrown into a prison cell.

With power came arrogance, and Ghori’s pride demanded cruelty. To humiliate his captive, he ordered Prithviraj to be blinded with hot iron rods.

A week later, Ghori held a public event—a tournament to showcase skill and dominance. Among the crowd was a cloaked figure: Chand Bardai. He proposed an archery contest between Ghori and the blind king.

Ghori, blinded by ego, accepted. How could a man with no sight defeat him?

Bardai stood in a direct line between Prithviraj and Ghori, placing an apple on his own head. Then, he cried out:

"चार बांस चौबीस गज, अंगुल अष्ट प्रमाण|

ता ऊपर सुलतान है, मत चूको चौहान||"

Prithviraj, trusting Bardai, released the arrow. He missed the apple—but struck Ghori through the heart.

The arena fell silent. Ghori’s body crumpled.

Guards rushed in. Both men were captured and sentenced to die in prison. But they had fulfilled their purpose.

Refusing to die in chains, they chose to die with honor. And so, they took each other’s lives."

"What?" Sunny exclaimed. "Why would they do that? Surely there’s a better ending."

"In life, there seldom is," his grandfather replied.

The story stayed with Sunny. He tried to rewrite it in his mind—imagining the king regaining his sight, returning home in triumph with his friend. But no ending he invented could calm the ache inside him.

Still, he kept asking his grandfather for a better ending. The answer was always the same:

"That’s for you to find out."

So Sunny looked up at the stars—not to see constellations anymore, but to search for the peace his grandfather once found there.

And over time, he did. The emptiness he once felt began to fill with his grandfather’s wisdom and presence. He had found a father in his grandfather.

Years passed. Then came the day when fate took its turn.

His grandfather fell ill. In his final hours, he whispered only one name: Sunny.

But Sunny arrived too late. His grandfather had already gone.

Everything Sunny was, everything he could be—had lived in his grandfather’s eyes. And now he couldn’t see them anymore.

He remembered the words often spoken to him:

"Mat chuko, Chauhan."

Just as Bardai and Chauhan had died with honor, Sunny felt he died with Vikramaditya.

But Yash remained.

Before his final breath, Sunny left behind a letter:

"To the demons over my shoulder, keeping me from my best,

I’m sorry—I choose me.

To Miss Regret, who doesn’t let me sleep at night,

I’m sorry—I choose me.

To my past, that keeps me from growing,

I’m sorry—I choose me.

To the generations of trauma my people carried,

I’m sorry—I choose me.

To the people who lie and victimize themselves,

I’m sorry—I choose me.

To everyone,

I’m sorry—I choose Vikramaditya."