Shankar stepped into the clearing, camera raised, his focus darting from the stone carvings to the surrounding ruins. Something about this place felt... off. Not in a spooky way. In a this-place-hasn't-forgotten-anything way.
A small crowd gathered as their local guide arrived. He wore a weathered cap and walked with the kind of limp that suggested either an old injury or too many years walking circles around this site.
He didn't start with a greeting. He just pointed.
"This chamber," he said, his voice low and gritty, "was once part of the Mauryan treasury system. That's what the archaeologists believe, anyway."
The students shifted, some already zoning out.
"But the locals…" he continued, a crooked smile tugging at his lips, "…they say something different."
That got a few eyes on him. Shankar included.
"They say a sealed vault lies behind this very wall," he tapped the rough stone with the back of his hand. "A room full of gold, guarded by puzzles and curses. And if you try to open it the wrong way…"
He let the sentence hang, like smoke in the air.
Someone snorted. "Seriously?"
The guide just grinned. "Even the British tried to blast it open once. Didn't work. Just scorched the wall. You can still see the marks—here."
Shankar stepped closer, fingers brushing the stone where soot faded into clean lines. It didn't feel like a treasury. It felt like a warning.
"Look here," the guide said, tracing faded inscriptions. "Sanskrit. Pali. A few symbols we still don't understand. Some say it's Shankha script—older than most alphabets we use today."
Savitri was already scribbling in her notebook. Shankar glanced at her, then back at the wall. It didn't just feel old. It felt watchful.
The guide lowered his voice. "Some say this place isn't just a vault. It's a seal. Keeping something inside."
That got quiet attention. The kind that didn't giggle.
"But hey," he chuckled, straightening up, "maybe it's just stone. Maybe it's just a story."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving the group staring at the wall that suddenly didn't feel so harmless.
Savitri looked up. "You okay?"
Shankar didn't answer right away.
Because something in him whispered—
This place is lying to us.
Shankar turned to look—his fingers still holding the camera mid-air—but his attention now fully on the stone. His camera caught Savitri too, smiling slightly as she noted down the year and details.
He stepped closer, still holding his camera. "You're taking this pretty seriously," he said, genuinely curious.
Savitri looked up. "Why not? It's more than stone walls. These places carry stories—some lost, some barely hanging on. Don't you ever wonder what really happened here?"
Shankar shrugged. "Sure, I like the stories. Just… I prefer the facts over the fairy dust."
She smiled, not offended. "Fairy dust isn't always about magic, Shankar. Sometimes it's about faith… and imagination."
He thought for a second. "I guess we're both looking at the same wall… just reading different parts of the story."
They exchanged a light smile—his, skeptical but amused; hers, thoughtful and calm—before continuing on through the treasury's cool, mysterious air.
While the rest of the students were busy capturing selfies, cracking jokes, or just soaking in the guide's explanations, Shankar quietly slipped away. It wasn't a conscious decision—it was just his thing. Camera in hand, he often wandered a bit, searching for perspectives others ignored.
On the far end of the Swarn Bhandar site, partially hidden behind an overgrown bush and worn-down signage, was an open stone archway. Nothing fancy or roped off—just… ignored.
Shankar stepped in.
The air inside shifted. It was cooler, silent. The light dimmed naturally as thick stone walls closed around him. This space didn't seem like part of the regular tour—just a leftover chamber too unremarkable for group interest.
But then he saw the wall.
Five carvings stood etched into the stone, aged but intact:
A faintly circular ring like thing, rugged and slightly raised.
A temple, modest, with spire lines that disappeared into cracks.
A mountain, sharp-edged and triangular.
A wide banyan tree, its roots and branches like spreading veins.
And a man, simple, featureless, arms open—like welcoming or surrendering.
Shankar stared.
The carvings weren't glowing. No music played. There was no sudden burst of wind. But they felt… deliberate. Ancient, yet ignored.
He pulled out his camera slowly.
Click.
Click.
Click.
No one had followed him here. No one had even noticed he was gone.
Just the way he liked it.
The moment he framed the final shot, the light from outside spilled in for a second, casting his silhouette over the carving of the man. For that brief moment, the stone figure had a shadow again.
As they packed up to leave the ruins, Shankar lingered for a moment. Something tugged at his thoughts—like the carvings had more to say, but he didn't know the language.
Then… he saw it.
A man.
Walking alone toward the same carvings.
Dressed in a long, black cloak—hood up, his face partly hidden, but not completely. A mid-length beard, dust settled on the fabric, yet he walked like he wasn't tired. Or hot. Or even sweating.
And this was summer. In Bihar.
Shankar frowned.
"Who wears something like that out here?"
But the moment passed. He shrugged it off. Probably a tourist. Or some local priest. Or someone's grandfather doing something weird. Happens all the time.
So he turned away.
He didn't see the man stop.
Didn't see him turn his head.
Didn't notice the way the hooded figure stared at him in silence, eyes just barely visible beneath the shade.