Debasis Mukherjee
The Return to Bishnupur
The scorching afternoon sun beat down on the dusty platform of Bishnupur Railway Station. The faint scent of baked earth, mustard fields, and incense from a nearby temple filled the air. Arindam Roy stepped off the train, his leather bag slung across his shoulder and sweat forming a light sheen on his forehead. Though it had been ten years since he left this town, the past welcomed him like an old ghost—unfamiliar, yet unforgettable.
Once a sleepy princely town in West Bengal, Bishnupur was known for its terracotta temples, Baluchari sarees, and whispered legends of long-lost treasures. Arindam had left behind the quiet life of this place to become a crime journalist in Kolkata. He never thought he’d return. Not like this.
In his pocket was a letter—aged, yellowed, and scrawled in ink that had faded with time.
“If truth is what you seek, then come home. The past is rising again.”
– Udayan Sen.
Dr. Udayan Sen, retired archaeologist and eccentric recluse, had been Arindam’s childhood mentor and a close friend of his late father. The letter arrived three days ago, without a return address, but Arindam recognized the handwriting instantly. There was no explanation—just that cryptic line. And yet, something about the urgency of it pulled him back to Bishnupur.
He took a rickshaw through the winding lanes of the town. The narrow roads were lined with mud-walled houses, shrines under banyan trees, and walls stained with decades of festival posters. As he passed the historic Rasmancha Temple, its brick-and-mortar structure bathed in late sunlight, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that something ancient was watching him.
Dr. Sen’s house stood on the edge of Mrinalini Road, flanked by overgrown shrubs and an iron gate left ajar. The building was one of those colonial-era bungalows—red brick, tiled roof, wooden shutters, and an air of secrets held too long.
Arindam pushed open the gate and walked up the cracked stone path. The front door creaked open when he knocked.
“Dr. Sen?” he called out.
Silence.
He stepped in cautiously. The living room was dimly lit, with dust dancing in the golden light that poured through the slatted windows. Books were piled everywhere—on the floor, on tables, stacked on chairs. On one wall hung a large faded photograph of the Rasmancha, with tiny notes pinned around it.
Something felt… wrong.
He moved toward the study, the one at the end of the corridor. The door was slightly ajar.
“Dr. Sen?”
As he nudged it open, a pungent metallic scent hit his nose.
The room was still. Too still.
Then he saw it.
Dr. Udayan Sen lay sprawled beside his desk, eyes open, mouth slightly parted as though in surprise. Blood had pooled beneath his head and stained the Persian rug beneath. A deep slash ran across his throat, clean and precise.
On the floor next to the body was a bloodied shard of terracotta.
Arindam froze.
His pulse quickened, his mind racing.
Murder.
Cold-blooded. Ruthless. Deliberate.
He backed away and pulled out his phone, fingers trembling slightly as he dialed the local police station.
Within thirty minutes, the house was swarming with policemen, tape, and flashbulbs. Leading the investigation was Inspector Bikram Sanyal—mid-forties, clean-shaven, square-jawed, and already suspicious of everything and everyone.
“You say you just arrived today?” Bikram asked, glancing at Arindam’s ID.
“Yes. I came straight from the station. I received a letter from him. I have it with me,” Arindam replied, handing it over.
The inspector read it silently, then folded it back.
“Odd. Dr. Sen didn’t have many visitors. And this letter… very vague.”
“He was investigating something, I think,” Arindam said cautiously. “Some old legend, maybe even something linked to the Rasmancha. He mentioned the ‘truth’ rising again.”
Bikram frowned. “Have you heard of the ‘Ratnasambhar’?”
Arindam blinked. “The hidden jewel of the Malla kings? That’s just folklore, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. But according to our sources, Dr. Sen believed otherwise. He was obsessed with tracing its location. Rumors say he recently uncovered something. Something he didn’t want to share until he was sure.”
Bikram leaned closer, eyes sharp. “Do you know where he kept his research?”
Arindam shook his head.
The study was ransacked, but not completely. A small pedestal once displaying a brass replica of the Rasmancha stood empty. It was missing.
“Was anything taken?” Bikram asked.
“That model,” Arindam pointed. “It used to be there. He was fond of it.”
The inspector took notes.
“This doesn’t look like a simple robbery. This is surgical. Whoever did this wanted something specific—and killed him without hesitation.”
The air inside the house grew heavier. Outside, the sun had started to dip behind the temples, casting long shadows across the ancient lanes of Bishnupur.
“Be careful, Mr. Roy,” the inspector said, sliding his notebook into his pocket. “This town may look quiet, but under its temples and stories, it hides old blood and older greed.”
Arindam stayed silent as the body was taken away.
That night, he stood in his guesthouse, staring out the window. In the distance, the Rasmancha loomed—a dark silhouette under the moonlight. Somewhere beneath its bricks, or buried within history, lay the answer to why Udayan Sen died. And why he called Arindam back after a decade.
But the answer wouldn’t come easy.
Because someone was willing to kill for it.
Blood on Terracotta
The morning after the murder felt unsettlingly calm. A soft mist clung to the ground like a veil as Bishnupur stirred to life. The air smelled of wet mud and marigolds. But for Arindam Roy, sleep had been out of the question.
He sat on the porch of his modest guesthouse, sipping a steaming cup of tea, still processing the image of Dr. Udayan Sen’s lifeless body. The blood, the shattered shard of terracotta—it played in loops through his mind like a gruesome newsreel.
He couldn’t help but replay every word of the letter again.
“If truth is what you seek, then come home. The past is rising again.”
The past. Bishnupur’s past was steeped in blood, pride, and power. Once ruled by the Malla dynasty, it had stood tall against invaders, rebellions, and time. Its history was inscribed not just in manuscripts, but in the clay and dust of its temples.
Dr. Sen must have found something. Something dangerous.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
Inspector Bikram Sanyal stood at the door in his crisp khaki uniform, notebook in hand. “Mind if I come in?”
Arindam gestured toward a chair. “You already think I’m involved, don’t you?”
Bikram smirked faintly. “I think everyone is involved until proven otherwise.”
He sat down, eyes scanning Arindam’s face. “Tell me again—what was your relationship with Dr. Sen?”
Arindam took a breath. “He was my mentor. He taught me everything I knew about local history. After my father died, he became almost like family. But we lost touch after I moved to Kolkata. Until that letter arrived.”
Bikram nodded. “His niece, Madhuri Sen, arrived last week from Mumbai. Said she came to visit after a long time. Did you know about her?”
“No. I didn’t even know he had any family left.”
Bikram flipped through his notes. “She’s… elusive. Doesn’t talk much. Seems to know about the gem as well. Says her uncle told her that he was close to discovering the exact location of Ratnasambhar. Maybe too close.”
“The Ratnasambhar,” Arindam muttered, “a royal gem hidden centuries ago… and cursed, according to legend.”
Bikram raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe in curses, Mr. Roy?”
“I believe men will kill for less.”
Silence.
Bikram leaned forward. “The shard we found next to the body—it’s not ordinary terracotta. It matches the design of a lost temple panel. Possibly looted during the 1960s. We’re testing it for fingerprints, but chances are, the killer wore gloves.”
“And the missing Rasmancha model?”
“Gone. But Dr. Sen kept notes, didn’t he? Journals? Diaries?”
Arindam shook his head. “If he did, they weren’t in the study.”
Bikram stood. “If you find anything, anything at all—even a line in an old notebook—you come to me first. Understand?”
“Understood.”
As Bikram walked away, Arindam’s gaze drifted to his bag. Inside, among his belongings, was a file folder he had picked up on instinct from Dr. Sen’s study—hidden beneath a stack of old magazines.
He opened it now.
Inside was a notebook. The first page read:
“Codex R – My search for the Truth beneath the bricks.”
The next few pages were filled with fragmented sketches of Rasmancha’s foundation, hand-drawn maps, and a series of numbers—coordinates?
Arindam’s journalist instincts flared. This wasn’t just theory. Dr. Sen had found something real. Something physical.
One note read:
“The gem is not above, but below. Beneath the fourth pillar, east wing. Sealed in 1742 during the Maratha scare.”
Suddenly, it clicked.
The Rasmancha Temple.
Its fourth pillar.
Buried treasure? Or something more sinister?
But why now? Why reach out to him after so long?
And then there was Madhuri.
Why show up just days before the murder?
Later that afternoon, Arindam paid a visit to the Rasmancha, weaving through schoolchildren, tourists, and priests. The temple stood tall with its pyramidal roof and arched corridors, majestic yet aged—like an old king guarding a secret.
He circled to the east wing.
The fourth pillar.
He counted carefully, as Dr. Sen’s notes instructed. It stood covered in moss and red vermilion, likely unnoticed for centuries.
Kneeling, he felt the base—ordinary bricks, some loose with age. He tapped one. Hollow.
Before he could probe further, a voice startled him.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
He turned.
A woman stood near the corridor, watching him. Her face was half-shaded by a dupatta, eyes sharp and unreadable.
“Madhuri Sen, I presume,” Arindam said.
She didn’t smile. “You knew my uncle?”
“I did. I also found him dead.”
She walked closer, arms crossed. “Then you know he was onto something big. Something that got him killed.”
Arindam didn’t answer.
“I warned him,” she continued. “He told me someone was following him. A man in a white kurta. Always seen near the temple. My uncle had enemies, Mr. Roy. You must understand that.”
“Enemies? From the academic world?”
She hesitated. “From the black market.”
That got Arindam’s attention.
“Treasure traffickers?”
“Yes. You think Ratnasambhar is just a tale? People are willing to pay millions for lost relics. And they don’t care how much blood it costs.”
She handed him a folded piece of paper.
“He gave this to me the night before he died. Said it would make sense to you.”
Arindam unfolded it. A single line, in Dr. Sen’s handwriting:
“The key lies not in gold or glory, but in blood that runs through the temple’s past.”
Chills ran down his spine.
Madhuri stepped away.
“You’re not safe, Mr. Roy. You’re in this now. So be careful where you dig.”
Then she disappeared into the crowd.
Arindam stood alone beside the pillar, his mind racing. Something had been buried beneath the surface—literally and metaphorically—for centuries. A treasure, yes, but also a truth someone would kill to protect.
The blood on the terracotta wasn’t just Dr. Sen’s.
It was the beginning of something ancient reawakening.
And he was now its witness.
The Legend Beneath the Bricks
Night had fallen over Bishnupur, painting the terracotta temples in silver shadows. The Rasmancha loomed like a sleeping giant, quiet but watchful. In the corner room of his guesthouse, Arindam Roy sat surrounded by half-burnt candles and a table strewn with Dr. Sen’s cryptic notes.
He hadn’t slept. The scribbled clues, coded numbers, and cryptic phrases had drawn him in like a trapdoor into the past. His instincts, sharpened by years of journalism, told him this was no wild theory. This was real. Tangible.
But it was dangerous. And it had already taken a life.
He re-read a note underlined thrice:
“The Gem is a key—not for power, but for guilt buried deep.”
That night, he decided to meet someone who might help unravel what Dr. Sen couldn’t.
The next morning, Arindam found himself inside the Acharya Jogeshwar Archives, a dusty room hidden behind the Bishnupur Rajbari complex. It was rarely visited—except by historians and madmen.
Among them was one old man—Kalikinkar Ghosh, local historian, part-time librarian, and full-time gossipmonger. He sat in a bamboo chair, wearing round glasses and chewing fennel seeds like a machine.
“Arindam Roy?” he chirped when he saw him. “Ah, the city boy who escaped our boring little town! Why now, eh?”
“I’m here about Dr. Sen.”
Kalikinkar’s smile faded. “Tragic. Brilliant man. Always sniffing at ancient dust and secrets.”
“Do you know about the Ratnasambhar?”
The old man laughed. “Everyone in Bishnupur does. But most think it’s a bedtime story for over-imaginative children.”
“I think it got Dr. Sen killed.”
Kalikinkar’s eyebrows rose. “Then you better listen closely, city boy.”
The Legend of Ratnasambhar
Centuries ago, during the reign of Raja Raghunath Singh Dev II, a gem of immense value—a large, star-shaped ruby called Ratnasambhar—was given to the Malla kings by a South Indian ally. Legends said it shimmered in both sun and moonlight and had astrological powers.
But in 1742, during the Bargi raids by Maratha warriors, the king ordered the jewel to be hidden beneath the foundation of Rasmancha. A secret chamber was built—lined with seven curses written in Sanskrit. Only the royal bloodline had access. Only they knew the key.
Then the dynasty fell. And the knowledge was buried.
“No one ever found it?” Arindam asked.
“Many tried. Even the British dug parts of the east wing. But people say they fled after one officer went mad. Died screaming about blood dripping from bricks.”
Arindam stared. “Blood?”
Kalikinkar leaned in. “They say the temple drinks blood to protect its treasure. Maybe superstition. Maybe not.”
“Was Dr. Sen related to the royal family?”
“No. But he was obsessed with their genealogy. He once claimed that a direct descendant still lived here, unaware of the key in their blood.”
Arindam blinked.
A descendant.
Could this be what Dr. Sen discovered?
Could Madhuri…?
Later, as he stepped out into the warm afternoon, Arindam noticed the town felt different. The air was thick. Heavy with something unseen.
He walked back toward the east wing of the Rasmancha. Each pillar looked identical, yet now he noticed something new: a red tilak smeared unevenly on the fourth pillar.
Had someone come after him?
He crouched near the base and felt along the seam of bricks again. Then, a soft click.
One of the bricks sank inward slightly. A breeze escaped through the crack—a cold, stale breath from beneath the earth.
Before he could act further, he heard footsteps behind him.
He turned sharply.
A man stood watching him from the shadows. Tall, white kurta, eyes hidden under sunglasses even in the evening light.
Not a local.
Not a pilgrim.
And definitely not friendly.
Arindam took a step back.
The man didn’t speak. He simply raised one hand and pointed to the pillar.
Then he vanished into the trees behind the temple.
Back at the guesthouse, Arindam scribbled furiously in his notebook.
He drew lines between clues:
Dr. Sen dies protecting something.
Terracotta shard as weapon – symbolic? Ritualistic?
Model missing. Why? Was it a map in disguise?
Royal descendant = key. Bloodline = access.
East wing, fourth pillar = possible chamber.
Man in white = watcher, enforcer?
He needed answers. Fast.
He picked up his phone and called Inspector Bikram.
“You need to know something,” he said.
“Go ahead,” Bikram replied.
“I think someone is using the old legend as a mask—for something much bigger. Maybe an artifact trade. Maybe something worse.”
There was silence on the line.
Then Bikram said, “Good. Because we just found another body.”
Arindam froze.
“Who?”
“A temple priest. Throat slit. Same pattern.”
“Where?”
“Near the abandoned granary behind Rasmancha. And next to him? A broken model of the Rasmancha temple.”
Arindam’s blood went cold.
“Stay where you are,” Bikram ordered. “You’re not just a journalist anymore, Roy. You’re in the middle of it.”
As the line went dead, Arindam stared at the ancient photograph of Rasmancha on Dr. Sen’s wall.
The temple wasn’t just a monument anymore.
It was a crime scene.
And it was bleeding secrets.
A Second Body, A Deeper Lie
The granary behind the Rasmancha was a forgotten structure—a ghost of a building swallowed by vines, its walls crumbling under centuries of silence. But now, silence was broken by the flashing red and blue lights of the police jeeps.
Arindam stood behind the caution tape, watching as Inspector Bikram Sanyal walked out, his boots thick with mud and something darker.
“Same pattern?” Arindam asked.
Bikram gave him a grave look. “Throat slit clean. Almost surgical. No sign of a struggle.”
“And the model?”
Bikram held up a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a broken clay miniature of the Rasmancha temple. Unlike Dr. Sen’s, this one had a peculiar marking carved into its base—a trident symbol.
Arindam frowned. “I’ve seen that symbol before…”
“In Sen’s notebook,” Bikram nodded. “Next to the phrase: *‘Brahmarakshas Stambha’. Do you know what that means?”
Arindam shook his head.
“‘The Pillar of the Demon Priest’. An ancient belief—some pillars are cursed, haunted by priests who were murdered or wronged. Their spirits protect hidden knowledge. Maybe treasure.”
“Or maybe someone wants us to believe that,” Arindam murmured.
Bikram handed him a folder.
“We found this near the granary. Belonged to the priest.”
Inside were pages of Sanskrit chants, but more crucially, a crude map. Hand-drawn. Showing a tunnel from the eastern wall of Rasmancha leading beneath the granary.
A hidden passage?
Arindam’s breath caught.
“Who gave him this?” he asked.
“That’s the question. The priest’s name was Mahesh Baba. Locals said he started behaving strangely the past week. Muttering about ancient sins and rebirth.”
“Could be guilt,” Arindam said. “Or someone planted the map to get him killed.”
Bikram nodded. “The trident symbol was used by a few Tantric cults in Bengal during the 1700s. Some of them believed blood was a purifier. What if the killer believes he’s cleansing the temple?”
Arindam felt the chill in his bones again.
A cult. A curse. A code.
This was spiraling beyond logic.
And yet, every thread led back to Rasmancha.
Later that evening, Arindam returned to Dr. Sen’s house alone. The silence in the study was suffocating now. He opened the drawer again. Something he had missed the first time now caught his eye.
A torn letter stuck behind the drawer base.
He pulled it out carefully.
It was addressed to “M.”
Madhuri.
“…if I do not survive, do not mourn me. The truth is buried not just in bricks, but in bloodlines. You are the key, but only if you are willing to carry the shame your ancestors buried.”
It was unsigned.
Arindam stared at the letter for a long time.
Madhuri knew more than she was letting on.
He rushed out of the house and made his way to the lodge where she was staying. The sky was darkening, thunder rumbling far in the west. A storm was coming.
The receptionist pointed toward the backyard. “She left around dusk. Said she was going to the temple.”
Again?
Arindam ran.
The Rasmancha stood like a silhouette against the stormy sky. Lightning crackled behind it, throwing the pillars into jagged shadows.
He saw her.
Madhuri stood at the fourth pillar, one hand resting on its moss-covered surface, whispering something.
He approached quietly.
“Looking for something?” he asked.
She turned, startled—but not frightened.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“Neither should you. Especially if you’re hiding the truth.”
She looked at him sharply. “And what truth would that be?”
“You’re the royal bloodline. Dr. Sen’s notes prove it. He traced your lineage. Your great-grandmother was the illegitimate daughter of Raghunath Singh Dev’s last queen. The bloodline never ended. It just went underground.”
Madhuri stared at him.
Then nodded. “He told me last year. Said it was time I returned. Not to claim, but to protect.”
“Protect what?”
She looked at the pillar. “The seal. Beneath this is the chamber. And the gem. He believed that whoever possessed the Ratnasambhar could manipulate fate—through blood offerings and ancient rites. Some wanted it for power. But he… he just wanted it to be safe.”
Arindam stepped closer. “You think the killer knows about you?”
She hesitated. “Yes. And they won’t stop at two.”
A loud clang echoed across the corridor.
They turned.
A figure stood at the temple gate, watching them.
The man in white.
Same build. Same blank stare.
Then he vanished behind the pillars.
“Run!” Arindam shouted, grabbing her hand.
They sprinted around the corridor, but by the time they turned the corner, the man was gone.
No footprints. No trace.
Madhuri gasped. “He’s not working alone.”
Arindam scanned the shadows. “Then we’re running out of time.”
Back in his room, Arindam opened his laptop and scanned the genealogy document again. Names, dates, royal symbols.
Then he saw something that made his fingers freeze on the keyboard.
The trident symbol appeared once before.
Next to the name: Taraknath Ghosh.
The founder of a 19th-century temple near Joypur forest. Declared a heretic and exiled from Bishnupur. Believed to have created a secret society of priests guarding ‘spirit seals’.
Below it: “Blood keeps the temple asleep. Break the seal, and the curse awakens.”
Arindam leaned back.
Could it be?
Could the murders be a ritual to awaken whatever was buried?
He picked up his phone and called Bikram again.
“You need to hear this,” he said.
But the call didn’t connect.
The power cut.
The room went dark.
And outside, thunder exploded like a cannon over Bishnupur.
Here is the continuation of the mystery novel:
The Seal Beneath the Temple
The town of Bishnupur lay under a blanket of storm. The streets had emptied. Shops closed early. Thunder cracked like a whip across the ancient sky as rain began to slash against tiled roofs and temple spires.
Inside the guesthouse, Arindam lit a candle. The power was still out. He reached for his notebook, his hand trembling slightly—not from fear, but anticipation. Pieces were falling into place.
If Taraknath Ghosh had founded a society to guard a seal, and if that society still existed, the killer wasn’t just hunting for treasure. He was following a plan. A ritual.
And Madhuri, as the descendant, might be the final key.
The rain did not let up.
Arindam threw on a raincoat and grabbed a flashlight. He couldn’t wait for morning.
He made his way to the east wing of Rasmancha again, now deserted and drenched in rain. His flashlight flickered across the fourth pillar. He crouched and pressed the stone that had shifted before.
Click.
This time, the stone sank fully, and a panel beside the pillar creaked open with a groan—revealing a narrow spiral staircase that led downward.
He hesitated.
The air that rose from below was thick, metallic, and damp—as if the earth had been bleeding.
With only the flashlight to guide him, he descended.
The steps spiraled deep into the ground. He counted thirty-six before reaching a chamber lit faintly by old oil lamps—still burning. Someone had been here recently.
The walls were covered with murals—scenes of sacrifice, celestial beings offering blood to terracotta deities. And at the center, the trident symbol carved into a black stone slab.
In front of it: a circular stone platform with dark stains.
Blood?
Arindam knelt down. There were fresh footprints, leading deeper into a narrow passage at the far end.
He followed, heart pounding.
The passage opened into a vaulted chamber lined with pillars. In the center was a raised pedestal. And on it, under a glass dome—
A gem.
No larger than a betel nut, glowing faintly red.
The Ratnasambhar.
It shimmered even in the dull light. Arindam approached, mesmerized.
Then—
“Step away.”
A voice echoed through the chamber.
Arindam turned. The man in white stood behind him, a dagger in hand, wet from the rain.
But this time, he pulled off his sunglasses.
And Arindam froze.
“Bikram?”
Inspector Bikram Sanyal smiled. “I hoped you’d find it. Saves me the trouble.”
Arindam stepped back. “You? You killed Dr. Sen?”
“I guided him,” Bikram said. “But he wanted to bury the truth. I needed it revealed. The gem, the power—it must serve the bloodline.”
“Then why kill the priest?”
“He was weak. He tried to flee with a copy of the map. The seal requires blood—three offerings to awaken the path to the Ratnasambhar. Sen. The priest. One more to go.”
“You’re insane.”
“No,” Bikram said softly. “I’m royal. My mother was a direct descendant of Taraknath Ghosh. We were banished for protecting this. Now, it returns to us.”
He stepped forward.
Arindam raised his flashlight and flung it at Bikram. It hit him in the shoulder.
Arindam ran toward the stairs, heart hammering, but Bikram tackled him halfway.
They wrestled, slipping on the damp stones, the dagger slicing Arindam’s arm. He kicked out, pushing Bikram back.
Suddenly, a figure emerged at the entrance of the chamber.
Madhuri.
“Drop it, Bikram,” she shouted, holding a revolver. “Police are already here.”
Bikram laughed. “Then let them come. You can’t stop this.”
He lunged at the pedestal—but Madhuri fired.
The shot echoed like a cannon in the ancient space.
Bikram fell, clutching his shoulder.
Blood dripped on the stones.
The Ratnasambhar glowed redder, almost pulsing.
Then… a low rumble.
The walls trembled. Dust fell from the ceiling.
Arindam grabbed Madhuri’s hand. “RUN!”
They bolted up the staircase as the chamber cracked behind them. The seal had been disturbed.
As they emerged into the temple above, police jeeps arrived, tires screeching on the wet stone path.
Arindam collapsed beside the pillar, soaked and bleeding. He looked at Madhuri.
“You knew he was involved?”
She nodded. “Dr. Sen suspected. He told me to let Bikram get close—to draw him in. But I didn’t think he’d actually… try the ritual.”
Two days later, under police protection, the Ratnasambhar was handed over to the Archaeological Survey of India. Sealed in a high-security vault.
Bikram survived his injury—but not the charges. Two murders. Conspiracy. Attempted theft of a protected artifact. His career ended in silence.
As for Madhuri—she returned to Kolkata, vowing never to set foot in Bishnupur again.
But before leaving, she met Arindam one last time.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“I only followed the story.”
“No,” she smiled faintly. “You followed the truth. Even when it was buried under blood”
The Fourth Curse
Bishnupur had begun to breathe again.
The rain stopped. The skies cleared. But the shadows of what happened beneath Rasmancha did not wash away so easily. For the townspeople, the murders and the legend of the gem blended into whispers—folk tales reborn, now with real names and fresh blood.
Arindam Roy, however, couldn’t leave just yet.
He sat in the local police outpost, staring at the final pages of Dr. Sen’s decoded journal, which had just arrived from Kolkata. It contained something Bikram had missed. Or perhaps ignored deliberately.
A fourth curse.
“The fourth curse is not of blood, but of memory. The bearer of the Ratnasambhar shall lose everything they love before they can control it.”
“One guardian must remain alive. One soul must remember and suffer.”
Arindam’s fingers trembled over the page. This wasn’t mythology. This was a warning. A prophecy. Maybe even a formula.
He turned the page.
There, drawn in ink, was something startling: a second gem.
Twin to the Ratnasambhar.
Marked only as “Nayanratna”—The Eye Jewel.
That evening, Inspector Rituja Sen from the state heritage division met Arindam in the ruins of the Rasmancha, which was now sealed off with government barricades.
“You’ve done something most reporters only dream about,” she said, arms crossed. “Uncovered a murder mystery, a stolen treasure, a secret cult, and managed to survive it.”
Arindam replied, “But there’s more, isn’t there? This wasn’t about just one gem.”
Rituja handed him a thin envelope. “You were right. We dug through the temple archives and found reference to the Nayanratna. It was said to be hidden in a second chamber—one that wasn’t beneath Rasmancha.”
Arindam opened the envelope.
Inside was a photo of a weathered map showing multiple dots—each marking an old temple in and around Bishnupur.
One dot was circled in red.
The Jor Bangla Temple.
At dawn, Arindam stood in front of the Jor Bangla Temple, built like twin thatched huts joined together—a marvel of terracotta and ancient engineering. Tourists clicked photos outside, unaware of the history sleeping within.
He met Madhuri there. She had returned silently, called back by the same urge that gripped him.
“They found another chamber,” she said.
“Under this temple?”
“No. Inside the wall itself.”
Rituja’s team had already started excavation behind the temple, at a point where an unusual seam in the wall had been discovered.
Arindam watched as they gently scraped through centuries of dust and stone.
Then suddenly—a hollow sound.
Chisel hit air.
Moments later, a narrow box was pulled out. Wooden, blackened with age. Sealed with iron bands shaped like eyes.
The lid creaked open.
Inside was a smaller orb—not as red as the Ratnasambhar, but deep green with flecks of gold. It shimmered like a serpent’s eye.
The Nayanratna.
Arindam reached forward—but a sharp crack of lightning split the sky.
No rain. No clouds. Just lightning.
The air turned metallic. Bitter.
Madhuri stepped back, staring at the gem.
“It’s cursed.”
“Or protected,” Arindam said.
Rituja looked up, expression grim. “We’re closing off both sites. Permanently. These gems go into ASI’s custody. This story ends here.”
But Arindam knew it didn’t.
Because even as the box was lifted away, he noticed something under the gem’s velvet base:
Another piece of paper.
He snuck it into his pocket when no one was watching.
Later, back in his guesthouse, he unfolded it.
A single Sanskrit line, smudged but readable:
“One opens the mind. The other opens time.”
He stared at it for a long time.
Two gems. Two guardians. Two doors.
Back in Kolkata, Arindam wrote his article. It didn’t mention the fourth curse. Or the second gem.
Some truths weren’t meant for the front page.
Instead, the headline read:
“Blood and Bricks: The Secret Beneath Bishnupur’s Temples”
By Arindam Roy
It won awards.
Got picked up internationally.
But none of it mattered.
Because months later, on a rainy October night, he found a letter at his doorstep. No stamp. No return address.
Inside: a photo.
A body lying in the Jor Bangla excavation site. Face bloated. Eyes burned.
And written in red ink:
“One guardian must remain. You chose wrong.”
Arindam dropped the letter.
And understood.
The story wasn’t over.
It was only beginning again.
The Keeper of Shadows
Arindam Roy sat motionless in his Kolkata apartment, the pale glow of the city lights barely penetrating the fog in his mind. The photograph from the envelope lay on his desk—its edges soaked from the whiskey he’d spilled earlier. The face of the dead man in the Jor Bangla site haunted him.
No name. No identity. Just burnt eyes and a body twisted in agony.
He turned the photo over again, rereading the blood-red words:
“One guardian must remain. You chose wrong.”
It wasn’t a warning.
It was a sentence.
He needed answers—and only one person might still have them.
Madhuri.
He hadn’t spoken to her since the gem was transferred to the ASI vault. The government had tightened every channel. Access to either gem—Ratnasambhar or Nayanratna—was restricted. Even the ASI team had been rotated out. But he still had her number.
He called.
No answer.
He tried again. And again.
Nothing.
At midnight, he went to her address in South Kolkata. The building watchman recognized him.
“She left three days ago,” he said. “Didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Just left a letter.”
He handed it to Arindam.
“If you’re reading this, I’ve gone back to end what never ended. There is a third. The Eye sees, the Heart bleeds, and the Voice commands. If I don’t return in five days, you’ll know what to do. —M.”
Arindam read the letter three times.
A third gem?
He sat in his car, shaking. The pieces were tumbling faster now.
Three gems. Three powers.
The Eye, the Heart… and the Voice?
He didn’t sleep that night.
Instead, by dawn, he was back on the road to Bishnupur.
The ancient town welcomed him with silence.
The ASI guards at the temple sites gave him nothing—orders from Delhi. Media blackout. No more excavation. No academic access.
But Arindam had learned to move without a badge.
He met with Rituja Sen again, this time at her government guesthouse. She looked older, more tired.
“There’s more going on, isn’t there?” Arindam asked.
Rituja didn’t answer directly. Instead, she handed him a sealed report.
“It’s not official,” she said. “But a third structure has been identified.”
Arindam opened the report.
It was a forgotten site near the village of Kumarpur, about 9 kilometers from Bishnupur. Once a terracotta kiln, now in ruins. But beneath the kiln, ground-penetrating radar had shown a spiral chamber.
Circular.
Like a voice box.
Like a throat.
“Do you think that’s where she went?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Rituja said. “But someone did. A few nights ago, the local priest saw torches near the kiln. Next morning, the inner sanctum had been opened. Blood. Ashes. And no sign of whoever was there.”
Arindam’s jaw tightened.
He stood to leave.
“You won’t stop, will you?” Rituja said softly.
“No,” he replied. “Not until I find her.”
The road to Kumarpur was narrow and muddy, flanked by overgrown trees and quiet fields. By noon, Arindam reached the abandoned kiln.
It loomed like a burnt-out mouth in the earth—blackened by years of forgotten fire.
He stepped inside. The inner walls were covered in soot and vines.
But in the center, where the floor had once been solid clay, there was now a gaping hole—just wide enough for a person.
Ropes dangled down into the darkness.
Fresh ropes.
Someone had gone down recently.
He tied a scarf over his face and descended slowly, the stench of burnt offerings and mold thickening with every step.
The chamber below was a circle—carved stone walls, uneven carvings of figures with open mouths, tongues forked like serpents.
A stone seat stood in the center.
Empty.
But on the wall behind it was a familiar trident symbol.
Below it, scratched in what looked like dried blood:
“The Voice is not in the stone. It is in the bloodline.”
He turned as a soft creak echoed behind him.
A shadow moved.
And out stepped someone he hadn’t expected.
Bikram Sanyal.
Alive. And smiling.
“Hello again, Roy,” he said, voice calm. “I told you it wasn’t over.”
Arindam stumbled back. “You were in custody—”
“Transferred. Manipulated. Released. You think the state runs itself?” Bikram laughed. “No, no. There are people above—guardians older than our governments. The Ghosh legacy never died. We just changed masks.”
Arindam tried to reach for his phone—but Bikram drew a revolver.
“No need for that. You’re not going to die today. You’re going to remember. That’s your curse.”
Behind him, two more men emerged.
They carried something between them.
A large urn. Black. With carvings that shimmered green.
Inside, Arindam heard… a hum.
Like breath. Like a whisper.
Then—he heard her voice.
Madhuri.
Faint. Desperate.
“Arindam…”
He lunged forward, but Bikram struck him with the butt of the revolver.
Dar
kness swallowed him.
When he awoke, the urn was gone. So was Bikram. So was Madhuri.
He lay alone in the chamber, bleeding from his temple.
But something had been left behind.
Another letter. Folded neatly.
“You chose wrong. The Voice has been awakened. Now we listen. And you will write.”
The Ritual of Echoes
The pain in Arindam’s skull pulsed with the rhythm of the chanting that still echoed in his ears. It wasn’t real—was it? The whispers, the layered voices, the faint cry that had sounded like Madhuri’s? Or was that his imagination clinging to her last trace?
He rose slowly from the dusty ground of the hidden kiln chamber in Kumarpur, his limbs aching and his breath unsteady. He hadn’t lost much blood, but the blow from Bikram had left him dazed, disoriented. Still, one thing had crystallized in his mind.
The third gem wasn’t just an artifact.
It was alive.
Arindam drove back to Bishnupur in silence, the narrow village paths shimmering with heat. The town looked just as sleepy as before—but the shadows felt deeper now.
Back in the heritage guesthouse, Rituja was waiting, her face pale and hollow-eyed.
“We found something,” she said, without waiting for pleasantries. “In the excavation records. Something you need to see.”
She led him to her office, where a spread of old family trees was pinned across a wall—decades of research that Dr. Sen had once started, tracing the descendants of the original guardians: the Ghosh bloodline.
Three pillars. Three guardians.
And one shared truth:
All of them were connected through a single, ancient priesthood, dissolved in the 1700s.
Arindam scanned the names.
Then stopped cold.
There it was. A scrawled lineage.
Madhuri Ghosh Sen.
And next to her?
Arindam Roy.
His own surname. His grandfather’s name. Connected through a cousin marriage, generations back.
He was part of the line.
His blood was part of the ritual.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.
Rituja hesitated. “We didn’t know until we saw the full chart. And… the third guardian has to awaken the Voice. That’s why Bikram let you live. You weren’t just a witness. You’re necessary.”
Arindam stumbled back, hands shaking. “They want me to… finish the ritual?”
“They already have the Ratnasambhar,” Rituja said. “And the Nayanratna. Now they need the Shabdaratna—the Voice Gem. The urn you saw wasn’t just ceremonial. It houses the Voice.”
“And Madhuri?”
“She’s either being used… or she’s part of it willingly.”
Later that night, Arindam sat alone in his room, trying to process the enormity of it all.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed.
A video message. No sender.
He pressed play.
A flickering image appeared: a subterranean hall lit with torches. Bikram stood behind a stone altar. Beside him—Madhuri. Dressed in a red silk saree. Pale, eyes blank.
“She’s here, Arindam,” Bikram said to the camera. “She’s chosen her side. Now we need yours.”
He stepped aside.
On the altar sat a triangular gem—deep violet, pulsing.
The Voice.
“Three voices. Three bloodlines. Three keys. You are the final one. Come before the full moon. Or she becomes the vessel.”
The video ended.
And Arindam screamed.
The next day passed like a fever.
He told Rituja everything. Her advice: walk away. Let the authorities take over.
But Arindam knew it wouldn’t work. The people above Bikram were everywhere. They controlled the flow of truth.
So, just before dusk, he left a letter behind and disappeared into the wilderness around Kashinath Hill, where the old ruins of a vanished monastery stood. Locals whispered about screams in the wind and stones that bled.
At the summit, he found what he was looking for:
A cave with ancient markings.
He lit a torch and descended.
The final chamber was vast—stone walls carved with Sanskrit hymns, many defaced. Offerings lay scattered on the floor: terracotta figures, ash bowls, ceremonial ropes.
And at the far end, beneath an arch of skulls—
A throne.
On it sat Madhuri.
Alive.
Eyes closed.
Chained.
At her feet, the three gems shimmered together: red, green, violet.
And circling them like a predator
Bikram.
He didn’t even flinch as Arindam stepped inside.
“I knew you’d come.”
“You used us,” Arindam growled. “Both of us.”
“I restored us,” Bikram said calmly. “We are the last of the blood. The temple speaks to us because we are worthy. Sen tried to hide the truth. Rituja is a coward. But you and I—we remember.”
He walked to the gems.
“With you, we complete the triad. You speak. She hears. I bleed.”
Before Arindam could react, Bikram sliced his own palm and let the blood drip onto the Voice Gem.
It flared.
A shockwave pulsed through the cave.
Madhuri’s body arched. Her mouth opened. She screamed—but the voice wasn’t hers.
It was layered.
Ancient.
Male and female and something else—something wrong.
“We are awake.”
Arindam fell to his knees.
The stone around them began to tremble.
And the last words he heard before he blacked out were:
“The temple is ready. Let the offering begin.”
The Offering
Darkness swallowed the cavern beneath Kashinath Hill as Arindam’s consciousness flickered like a dying candle. The voices—the many voices—still echoed inside his head, thick with pain and power.
He awoke bound to a cold stone altar. Around him, the flickering torchlight cast grotesque shadows, dancing across terracotta carvings of gods and demons locked in eternal struggle. His wrists were chafed from heavy ropes, his mind foggy but burning with urgency.
Across from him, Madhuri sat slumped, her body trembling, eyes glazed but flickering with faint awareness. Between them lay the three legendary gems—the Ratnasambhar, the Nayanratna, and the newly awakened Shabdaratna, pulsing with unnatural light.
Bikram Sanyal stood by the altar, a twisted smile playing on his lips. His revolver hung loosely by his side, but his focus was on the glowing stones.
“Arindam,” Bikram’s voice was calm, yet chilling. “You have the blood. She has the power. And I… I am the vessel.”
Arindam strained against his bonds. “This madness ends now.”
Bikram laughed softly. “You think you can stop the cycle? The temple’s curse isn’t a myth—it’s our birthright. The blood of Bishnupur demands sacrifice. Tonight, the offering begins.”
He raised a ceremonial dagger, its blade glinting with an eerie green sheen.
Suddenly, a heavy rumble shook the chamber, dust falling from the ceiling. The flickering torches cast wild shadows.
The temple was awakening.
With a primal roar, Arindam twisted fiercely, breaking a rope free. He lunged toward Bikram, but the man was quick—he slashed the air and caught Arindam’s arm with a searing strike. Pain exploded, but adrenaline surged.
Madhuri’s eyes snapped open, and a guttural chant escaped her lips—ancient, incomprehensible.
The gems pulsed faster, their light coalescing into a beam that shot toward the ceiling.
Arindam seized the moment, grabbed a fallen torch, and swung it at the altar.
Flames erupted, licking the ancient stones. Smoke filled the chamber as Bikram screamed in fury.
“Curse you, Roy! You don’t understand what you’re destroying!”
Amidst the chaos, Madhuri collapsed, the glow in her eyes fading.
Arindam freed himself fully, grabbed Madhuri’s trembling hand, and dragged her toward the exit. Behind them, the chamber trembled violently—stones cracked, ancient runes flared, and a deafening roar shook the earth.
Bursting out into the night, the temple behind them began collapsing, as if the very gods were punishing the desecration.
Arindam carried Madhuri through the darkness toward safety.
Days later, Madhuri lay in a Kolkata hospital, weak but alive. Arindam sat beside her, watching as she slowly regained consciousness.
“Why did you do it?” he asked softly. “Why the gems? The murders?”
Madhuri looked at him, tears brimming. “The temple chose us. The bloodline binds us. I wanted to protect you… and the secret. But Bikram… he wanted power. Control.”
She closed her eyes. “We destroyed the balance. The curse… it’s not just a story. It’s real. And it demands… blood.”
Arindam nodded grimly. “Then we have to end it. Once and for all.”
Weeks later, with the gems locked away and the temple ruins sealed, Arindam published his final story—a confession and warning.
The Blood Mystery in the Temple of Death.
It became a legend.
A chilling tale whispered in the streets of Bishnupur.
But deep inside, Arindam knew the truth.
Some curses never end.
The Last Guardian
The heavy rain pounded over Bishnupur as Arindam stood before the sealed temple ruins. The ancient stones now lay buried beneath layers of tarpaulin and steel scaffolding, guarded day and night by armed personnel. The story had spread — the world knew the legend of the stolen gems and the bloodline curse.
But Arindam felt no relief.
He clutched a small, worn journal in his hand — Madhuri’s.
In it were the final secrets of the three gems, the rituals, and a warning written in her trembling hand:
“The curse is a circle. The temple demands a guardian. If the triad is ever reunited, only one can remain. The last guardian must choose.”
He thought of the faces lost in the mystery — the innocent, the greedy, the betrayed.
He thought of Bikram’s chilling words — “With you, we complete the triad. You speak. She hears. I bleed.”
Arindam’s eyes hardened.
He had survived.
He had lost.
And now, he faced his final choice.
That night, beneath the storm-darkened sky, Arindam returned to the cavern beneath Kashinath Hill — alone.
The entrance was cracked open by workers, but the ancient chamber awaited, silent and cold.
He carried with him the three gems, wrapped carefully in velvet cloth.
A single flickering candle illuminated the altar.
He laid the gems before him, touching each one lightly.
The power hummed beneath his fingers, whispering promises of strength, knowledge, and terrible responsibility.
Closing his eyes, he whispered a vow:
“To protect the legacy… to break the curse… to guard the silence.”
With a steady hand, he placed the gems into a secret compartment carved beneath the altar — an ancient trapdoor sealed with intricate symbols.
The chamber trembled faintly, as if acknowledging his decision.
Days later, Arindam returned to Kolkata. He and Madhuri had vanished from the public eye, the scars of their ordeal etched deeply but their spirits intact.
The world moved on, but Arindam kept a silent vigil — the last guardian of a secret that could destroy or save.
In his heart, he knew the truth.
The temple’s curse was not just about power.
It was about choice.
And sacrifice.
The End
