Date: April 14, 2023
Location: Bodh Gaya Excavation Site – Theta Ruins
Written by: Advait Sen…?
---
I don't know if I'm still the one writing this.
I tried to burn these pages. I swear on every god left in my memory—I lit a flame beneath it, fed it oil, whispered apologies as the fire caught. But the paper only blackened slightly… and then reversed. The char faded. Ash fluttered back into place. The ink reassembled.
It wrote itself.
I am the last. The others are gone—some by the soil, some by the shadows, and one, I think, by her own hand. Not that it matters now. The chambers are sealed. The scrolls—what we could not understand—are buried beneath slabs etched with counter-script. We bled for that ritual.
But this diary...
This damned book does not sleep.
I closed my eyes an hour ago, and when I opened them again, these pages were wet with ink. New words, not mine. Old dialects. Mantras that I know weren't here before. Some appear in the margins. Some hover between the lines like whispers caught between sentences. Some are upside down. Some… aren't in any script I can name.
Last night, one appeared in my handwriting:
"You have come close, Advait. One ritual remains. One gate opens. Nirvana lies within."
I didn't write that.
I… I didn't.
And worse, it's offering now.
Every time I read too long, a new line appears, just below the old:
> "Burn the old gods within. Let go of name. Let go of body. Step beyond. Take the chant. Complete the mantra."
At the back of the book, where blank pages should have been, diagrams now shift with each blink—circles of hands, of bones, of robed figures whose faces are carved into identical smiles. One of them looks like me. I swear. I blinked, and its head tilted.
The diary is luring me. No, not just me. You.
You who are reading this. Yes, you.
It will test you too. You may feel curiosity—just a little at first. You may feel compelled to whisper what's written, to understand it, to see what happens.
Do not.
DO NOT.
Bhantaragya is not just a name. It is a door. Every time it is spoken, it listens. Every time it is written, it etches deeper into the mind that read it. That's how it spreads—not like a plague, but like hunger.
You will see it in dreams:
The Red Cloak.
The Silent Bell.
The Mouth beneath the Altar.
If you hear them chanting, cover your ears. If you dream of the Black Bodhi Tree, do not approach it. If the diary asks for blood, refuse.
And if you feel your hand move to write without your will, like mine is now—
Run.
But I don't think we can anymore.
This diary is now a relic. A relic of Bhantaragya. It is cursed.
It writes while I sleep.
It watches while I write.
And tonight, it told me:
> "One must remain to invite the next."
It means you.
So ask yourself:
Why are you still reading?
—Advait
(If I am still him.)