Date: March 31, 2023
Location: Bodh Gaya Site – Beneath Chamber Theta
---
We opened it.
God help us.
We opened it.
Beneath the chanting stones lay a sealed void.
Not a burial chamber.
Not a sanctum.
A pit. A mouth. A memory.
We called it the Well of Silence—but it did not stay silent for long.
It began humming before we even reached the bottom.
A frequency that bypasses the ears and nestles in the spine.
It reminded me of the chant, but faster. Angrier. Hungrier.
---
Devraj collapsed while climbing down the final rung. He screamed that something had wrapped around his chest—not a rope. A ribcage.
He's currently sedated in the medical tent.
His eyes roll constantly behind shut lids, and he mutters fractured stanzas from the Bhantaragya texts.
When I asked him what he saw, he said only:
> "The monk is no longer a monk. You gave him shape when you read his name aloud."
We never read it aloud.
Not until we found the eighth scroll.
---
Inside the pit, we found a stone basin, still slick with something thick and black. Not oil. Not blood. Something between both.
In the center lay a sculpture. Or so we thought.
It was Bhantaragya's body.
No decay. No sign of time.
He sat in lotus position, eyes closed, palms upward, spine fused to the basin floor.
Except—he was breathing.
Not visibly.
Not with lungs.
But the skin pulsed, like something beneath was pushing outward, testing the limits of human form.
---
The moment our torches hit his face, all chanting in Chamber Theta ceased.
Dead silence.
For the first time since the dig began.
And then we heard a voice.
It wasn't from the monk.
It came from inside us.
Each of us heard it differently—in our native tongue, in voices we recognized: a dead parent, a childhood friend, a lost lover.
But the message was the same:
> "You are inside me now."
---
I sealed the pit.
Or tried to.
We poured concrete. Salt. We recited counter-chants from the remaining scrolls.
But tonight, there are footsteps above the stone lid.
And laughter.
Not cruel.
Not mocking.
Welcoming.
---
Three more team members are missing.
Aditi, Liang, and Aryan.
We found only their clothing, neatly folded, arranged in a spiral outside the eastern dig perimeter.
On each shirt—burned into the fabric—the same sigil that had appeared on the foreheads of the dead.
---
I now believe Bhantaragya did not fail his attempt at Nirvana.
He redirected it.
Where others sought to dissolve into nothingness, he chose to concentrate his soul into everything.
He didn't transcend death.
He made death his form.
His language.
His ritual.
---
Tonight, I write this not as an archaeologist, but as a man desperately trying to keep my sense of self intact.
They no longer call my name as "Advait."
They now whisper, "Sutra Carrier."
I fear I've inherited the monk's story.
And the story is not done with me.
Tomorrow, I return to the pit.
Because somewhere in this madness, there must be an end stanza.
There must be a final seal.
And if not...
Then I'll write one.
— Advait Sen
Lead Archaeologist, Team Theta
March 31, 2023
Bodh Gaya – Site Alpha