James Parkinson read the sign above the restaurant and bar facing the Golconda Fort. On the western edge of Golconda, the sixteenth-century fortified city stood on the summit above him with its crumbling walls only above shantytowns. The evening was a fresh 20°C.

Dead clumps of grass half surrounded weather-worn stone pillars and crumbled buildings. Crimson sunset fog hung between the city’s landscape like blown flour. Having rained earlier that day, and with no sign of any moisture still in the air, Parkinson fought a parch in his throat. The travel website had mentioned that this was a suitable place to pass the time, but his mission here was anything but to look for air-conditioning and cheap drinks.

He moved towards a scanty building. Loose wires hung from the entrance, and a Coca-Cola sign swung from the entrance door. The menu on the board by the door offered local specialities—mostly meat items and vegetarian dishes. It tempted his eyes to involuntarily shut. Jet lag was setting in.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the cramped space beyond. It was nothing to write home about, but it was clean and dark. A stench of beer filled the air, as a commotion from the bar area made him turn his head. He made his way slowly to the counter. ‘One Kingfisher beer.’ He studied the bartender who looked like he would know the locale well. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ he added. ‘They told me there’s an old man here who knows Golconda’s mining and diamond history.’

The bartender gave him one glance and nodded, drying out several water glasses. Parkinson’s beer arrived warmer than he would have liked. ‘I serve beer, and that’s it. If you’re looking for the lunatic who speaks nonsense, then there,’ the bartender said lifting his chin towards the corner of the bar. He snickered. ‘That’s the only man I know who claims to know Golconda better than most. Between you and me, you will have to decide what you believe from him. I don’t know why anyone bothers with those ancient ruins.’

Parkinson slowly turned his head to the small crowd gathered around the voice coming from a cross-legged man seated in the room’s corner. Nothing about the man gave away his real motives for entertaining the small crowd. He kept shaking his head slowly. Parkinson grimaced and listened.

‘Until Alexander the Great came to India, no one outside the subcontinent had heard of diamonds. This was the place. He knew it.’

‘What’s his fee?’ Parkinson asked the bartender.

Wiping out several whisky glasses, the bartender shot one look at the man covered with a blanket around his small shoulders.

‘For what? Talking? Don’t waste your money.’

The old man’s beard almost touched the table.

‘Rumour has it he’s a cobbler from northern India. He says he’s 179 years old, so lots of the locals give him food and drink. We see him as good luck. He is a heck of a storyteller.’

What the bartender said was correct. Many had gathered around him with their whiskeys and plates of curries.

Unable to see, the old man’s eyes stared blankly into space. Parkinson took one look at the dog by his feet and gathered he was blind.

‘Do you believe his stories?’ Parkinson asked.

‘He certainly tells some remarkable ones. The tourists love it, so we let them come in here.

He can tell as many stories as he wants as long as people keep eating and drinking.’

‘What does he talk about?’

‘It all depends. My personal favourite is how he was born in the 1840s. Also, nobody can exactly verify this, so we all believe he’s 179 years old. He’s even been in the newspapers.’

‘I’m glad to see people believe in longevity,’ Parkinson said.

‘People are trying to live longer, so they will believe anything. In India, anything is possible.’

Parkinson grabbed his drink and moved towards the small crowd around the old man. He listened to the man’s story as he spoke in heavily accented British English.

‘The legend of Golconda says that the meteorite came down at a ferocious speed as it approached the Earth and hit Golconda. There was a little boy who lived in that village. He was out in the fields tending to goats and saw the whole thing. You see, this part of India had been cursed for centuries but also filled with blessing when the diamonds appeared.

When the meteorite hit, the young boy looked up. It hit on the outskirts of this town. Several of the meteorite rocks scattered. One was so dense it hit and created several caves and split rocks that came down the river. The meteorite then smashed into the village, and the porous stones glowed. Several moments later, no one saw as a large rock dropped on the shores of the riverbeds. It smashed into two diamonds. Later the villagers saw several miracles. Babies born that year all were rumoured to live beyond a hundred and twenty years or more. Like myself.’

The old man stared at the tourists. Parkinson observed him imagining the man had told the story many times before. Myths around gemstones and diamonds sometimes intrigued anybody who’d worked in geology.

Golconda was where the experiment had taken place. The forbidden warehouse that later closed, which had claimed the life of Emily Raith’s young life. It had all happened here. The experiment centres had burned down. It was classified, and no one knew about it.

He damn well did, because he’d barely escaped with his life and hadn’t been back since.

He just needed one sample. One sample from the caves.