Date: March 15, 2023
Location: Temporary Research Quarters, Site-374-B (Eastern Bihar Foothills, 78km southeast of Bodh Gaya)
I barely slept last night. Not because of fear—fear would have been easier. Fear is loud and physical, it shivers through your bones. No, this was subtler. This was the kind of silence where you can feel a memory being rewritten while it still breathes in your head.
This morning, I looked again at the manuscript fragment we recovered from Sub-Trench C, the one with charred edges and the ink that seems to shimmer when held against candlelight. It's written in an older Prakrit dialect—closer to Pali than Sanskrit, but not quite either. And even with over two decades of field experience, I've never seen a script like this. Dr. Natsume from Japan insists it's a syncretic variant—a dying monk's last attempt to transcribe a vision. She calls it poetic hallucination. I think she's just afraid to say what she suspects.
Here's the thing. The text doesn't speak of liberation. Not really. Not of moksha, not of the cessation of suffering. It talks of descending into the body, unfolding the flame within, and shedding the breath until the gods notice you. It doesn't sound like enlightenment. It sounds like bait.
I haven't told the others yet, but I traced one of the diagrams from the inner leaf onto translucent paper and aligned it with the site map. The central chamber of the underground complex we excavated last week matches the spiral pattern in the manuscript. Even the radius fits. How could they have constructed this subterranean coil millennia ago with such precise mathematical logic—without metal tools?
And yet all of this—the relics, the gold-etched bowls, the half-buried statues with their eyes gouged out—has been declared a "cultural breakthrough" by the delegation from Seoul and Colombo. A sacred find. Historic. They want to ship parts of the relics to major museums. Professor Li, to his credit, suggested digital preservation first. I appreciated that. At least someone hasn't lost their head to glory.
But the Indian contingent is…split. Dr. Mehta, who was with me during the initial survey last month, is now keeping his distance. It's not subtle. He barely acknowledges me in the morning briefings. And this afternoon, I heard one of the younger Thai interns whisper to another: "He's the one who found the scroll. The deaths started after that."
Deaths. Plural.
Anoma was the first. A fall, they said. Broke her spine clean. But I examined the footage again last night. She wasn't falling—she was stepping backwards. As if backing away from something. Something we didn't see.
We cremated her remains three days ago, per Buddhist rites. Some of the international team members thought it would be respectful. Others said it was unnecessary. Dr. Zhang performed the ritual quietly. I didn't speak. I didn't trust my voice.
I've begun feeling the heat more intensely. Not just outside—within. My palms sweat even in the AC-controlled archive tent. My head pulses at night with a deep, slow throb, and when I close my eyes, I see a wheel. Not the Dharma wheel. A burning one. And at its center, something that resembles an eye stitched shut.
They think I'm the one cracking.
Let them. I'm documenting everything now—every glyph, every whisper I overhear, every flicker of candlelight that moves just a bit too strangely. They won't believe me now. But they will. When this place closes in. When their dreams turn red.
I'm enclosing here a transcription of one of the sutra verses found on Fragment 7B. I'm not even sure it's a sutra. It reads like a chant, but one with purpose. Not praise. Not reverence. A summoning, perhaps.
---
Fragment 7B — Translated Verse (approx.)
> "With hollow breath, descend.
Burn the self beneath the stillness.
Let not the gods see you—
But the ones older than breath.
Their mercy is a mirror.
Their hunger, an ending of questions.
Light the cord, spill the soul.
Return not."
---
I have no idea what "light the cord" means. But there's an image beside it of a figure seated cross-legged, with a thread running from the crown of their skull to a bowl shaped like a lotus.
More unsettling, the same thread symbol appears scratched outside our dig site—carved into the back wall of the sleeping quarters. I swear it wasn't there yesterday.
The others say it's graffiti. Local pranksters. But the compound is sealed. No one gets in or out without biometric clearance.
I don't think this is a prank.
I'm not even sure this is human anymore.
I'll write more tomorrow. Unless the diary begins to write itself.
(Just a joke… I hope.)
—Dr. Advait Sen
Lead Field Officer
ASI South Asia Collaborative (Bodh Division)