The City of Monks: Gaya

The wind died the moment the portal closed behind him.

Pralay staggered forward, his boots crunching on loose gravel. Red dust clung to the air, catching sunlight in flickers of gold. The land around him was quiet — arid and stony, but not lifeless. Sparse trees dotted the landscape, their roots clutching ancient rocks like old hands.

Far ahead, beyond a low ridge, rose the faint outline of a city. Domes. Flags. Walls the color of dried turmeric. He couldn't see the people yet, but he could hear it: distant bells, laughter, the occasional clack of wood on stone.

He adjusted the strap across his shoulder and began walking.

The path descended into the valley, where the land grew greener. Banyan and tamarind trees lined the sides of a dusty road. The sound of water came from a carved stone channel running alongside the road — a steady trickle, fed by underground springs.

Soon, the city came into full view. Gaya.

It rose like a woven tapestry of stone and memory — temples with high towers, whitewashed shrines, marketplaces lined with awnings, prayer wheels turning slowly in temple balconies, and monasteries with open courtyards, their walls covered in carvings and faded script.

He passed through the city's wide entrance gate — a towering arch carved with circular motifs and crowned with four lion heads. No guards stood there. Only time.

Inside, the streets bustled with life. Monks with shaved heads moved calmly between monasteries, dressed in rust-colored robes, their hands tucked into their sleeves. Vendors shouted over carts, selling everything from hand-woven cloth to brass utensils and fresh flatbread. Children ran barefoot, laughing as they weaved between adults. Incense smoke curled into the air, mixing with the scent of hot ghee, cardamom, and sandalwood.

Pralay slowed, unsure where to go or who to ask. He felt out of place — his clothes dusted from travel, his expression wary.

A woman balancing a pot on her head glanced at him curiously. So did a fruit-seller, who squinted briefly before looking away.

He noticed a monk seated near a shrine, beside a sacred fig tree, folding prayer scrolls into a cloth bundle. The man had kind, weathered features and a quiet stillness about him.

Pralay approached slowly.

Pralay: "Excuse me…"

The monk looked up, his expression calm but curious.

Pralay: "I… I'm new here. I don't know this place. Could you tell me… what city this is?"

The monk studied him for a moment — not suspicious, but assessing. Then he smiled gently.

Monk: "This is Gaya, child. A place of learning, prayer, and pilgrimage."

Pralay: "I've never been here before. It's... beautiful. Ancient."

Monk: "It has stood long before we named it. Some say its spirit is older than memory itself."

Pralay nodded, eyes trailing to a nearby temple spire wrapped in cloth flags.

Pralay: "Is it always this... peaceful?"

The monk chuckled quietly.

Monk: "Peace lives here, yes. But so does purpose. Most who come are seeking something."

Pralay: "I guess I am too."

The monk tilted his head.

Monk: "Then you may find what you seek — if you listen more than you speak."

Before Pralay could reply, a young boy selling mango slices nearby ran up to him.

Boy: "You're not from here, are you?"

Pralay (smiling faintly): "No. Just arrived."

The boy grinned and handed him a slice of fruit, dusted with salt and chili powder.

Boy: "You look lost. First fruit is free."

Pralay (accepting it): "Thanks."

The boy darted off again into the market. Pralay bit into the mango — tangy, sweet, alive.

The monk stood, brushing dust from his robes.

Monk: "If you are searching for wisdom, head east. The great houses of study lie that way. And if you are searching for silence... follow the bells."

He bowed his head slightly and walked away.

Pralay stood still in the middle of the bustling city, feeling for the first time not like a target or a hunted soul—but just a stranger in a world with its own rhythms.

He gripped the ring in his palm. It pulsed — softly. Calmly.

The monk's quiet footsteps echoed along the sandstone path as he moved slowly through the shaded walkway lined with prayer wheels. Pralay followed, still chewing the last bite of the mango slice, the tang lingering as much as the unease in his chest.

The breeze followed them as they moved down a shaded pathway just past the last row of market stalls. It was quieter here — fewer vendors, more pilgrims. The air was thick with incense smoke, and the soft clang of distant temple bells came at long intervals, as if the city were exhaling slowly.

The monk walked ahead with measured calm, hands folded within the sleeves of his robe. Pralay followed, the dust of the path clinging lightly to his sandals. His eyes scanned the stone walls, the shrines tucked into corners, the prayer flags fluttering like messages between the heavens and the ground.

Pralay (hesitant): "Forgive me, elder. There's something I need to ask…"

The monk stopped gently and turned, offering a small nod to indicate he was listening.

Pralay: "I'm trying to find... Magadh. Do you know how far it is from here?"

The monk stopped mid-step.

For a moment, only the distant temple bells rang.

Then, slowly, he turned around, brows slightly raised.

Monk: "Magadh?"

Pralay: "Yes. A woman... someone who helped me... she told me I had to go there."

The monk gave a short laugh through his nose — not mocking, more puzzled, like hearing a child ask for a city that had long fallen into myth.

Monk: "You ask of Magadh as if it still exists."

Pralay (frowning): "It doesn't?"

The monk raised a hand, waving gently for them to walk again. They moved together beneath an archway, into a narrow stone alley lined with small shrines carved into the walls — each with flickering diyas casting patterns on the smooth surface.

Monk: "It existed once. And not just as a name. As a kingdom. A proud one. Fierce. Disciplined. But the world… changes."

They reached a quiet square shaded by a neem tree, where a woman sold earthen pots near a water pump and two children were drawing shapes in the dust with sticks. The monk motioned to a circular stone bench nearby. They sat.

Monk (gently): "There were four. Four kingdoms that ruled these lands—Magadh in the west, Gwalior in the north, Mathura in the east, and Ayodhya at the center."

He spoke slowly, his words chosen with reverence, as if pulling threads from a well-worn tapestry.

Monk: "They each had their kings. Their customs. Their wars. Blood soaked the borders, and treaties were as brief as the seasons."

Pralay leaned forward, elbows on his knees, listening closely.

Monk: "But the blood dried. The people grew tired. And slowly, they realized power meant less when it was divided. So came the Council. No thrones. No heirs. Just voices. Representatives. Wisdom over legacy."

He looked at Pralay now.

Monk: "They called it Aryavarta. One land. Not ruled, but represented."

Pralay (softly): "So… Magadh... is gone?"

Monk (shaking his head): "Not gone. Changed. The name remains in stories. In the stones. But not on the banners. What was Magadh is now part of Aryavarta. And you, child, are already walking on its dust."

Pralay sat still.

Kaalratri's words echoed sharply in his mind.

"In its eastern reaches lies Nalanda. Not the version from your textbooks. It's no ordinary university."

But if Magadh was only a name now — if it no longer stood as it once did — what had she meant?

Had she been misinformed? Or had she been speaking of something else?

Pralay (thoughtfully): "She said it like it mattered. Like it was still real. Important."

Monk (watching him): "And perhaps it still is. Names may change, but meaning… lingers."

Pralay looked down at the stone bench, his fingers brushing the ring in his palm. It was warm again — not pulsing, just… aware.

Pralay: "She sent me to a place that no longer exists."

Monk: "Or perhaps to a place that waits quietly beneath a new name."

He stood again, stretching his arms and wincing slightly with age.

They began walking down a narrow lane that wound toward a courtyard overlooking the rising hills in the east. Beyond the rooftops, green and silver rolled across the horizon, mist caught in the folds of distant forests.

The monk stopped near the railing.

Monk: "If you are looking for what still carries the spirit of the old Magadh... look to Nalanda."

Pralay: "Nalanda!"

Monk: "A university. Not of brick and scrolls alone, but of breath and stillness. A place where those who seek more than answers go to remember who they are."

Pralay turned his head slowly.

Pralay (repeating): "Yoga… dhyan…"

The monk smiled.

Monk: "Not poses or chanting alone. The true disciplines. The quiet weapons. Where students come not only from Aryavarta, but from beyond these lands — from the waters of Dwarka, the mountains of Kishkinda, the snowy terrains of Taxila, even the distant isles of Nagalok."

Pralay: "How far is it?"

Monk: "Two days' journey east, if your feet are kind and the roads remain silent."

He turned, beginning to walk away.

Monk: "You came asking for Magadh. You've already found what remains. What you need now... lies beyond."

He paused, looking over his shoulder with a final nod.

Monk: "Listen to what this world whispers. Bhoolok-Antar may not speak loud, but it remembers."

Pralay stood alone on the edge of the city's heart, wind curling around his arms, the scent of incense lingering on his clothes.

Magadh had faded from the maps.

But something older had not.

And now… it waited.

Pralay stood still, his eyes fixed on the eastern hills where the road to Nalanda disappeared into the horizon. The words of the monk still lingered in the air like a soft hum — "What you need now... lies beyond."

And yet, his body felt heavy. Not just from the day's walk, but from the weight of everything he didn't understand.

The monk noticed. His gaze lingered a moment on Pralay's face, reading something deeper beneath the boy's silence.

Monk (gently): "You carry many questions, child. And your eyes haven't rested since they arrived."

Pralay didn't deny it.

The monk offered a small smile.

Monk: "The road to Nalanda will be waiting tomorrow. Tonight, let your mind sleep before your body does."

He paused, then added more practically:

Monk: "A cart leaves at sunrise. Headed that way with two initiates and a grain merchant. If you're comfortable, I'll arrange a place for you on it."

Pralay looked at him. There was no pressure in the offer. Just kindness.

He nodded.

Pralay: "Thank you… I'd appreciate that."

Monk: "Come then. You'll stay at my monastery. The walk is not long. The quiet is longer."

They began walking again, this time through a narrow back lane that curved upward behind the temple walls. Along the way, Pralay caught glimpses of small courtyards and incense altars, monks sweeping prayer paths, children lighting butter lamps.

As they climbed a slope lined with flowering trees, a new structure slowly revealed itself.

It was nothing like the small temples and shrines he'd seen in the market quarter.

This place was vast.

Built into the hillside, the monastery rose in layered terraces like a stepped mountain, its upper halls crowned with circular domes gilded in bronze. Long red and gold banners hung from carved balconies, fluttering softly in the wind. Lush gardens filled the lower courtyards, with meditation stones and flowing water channels threading through the greenery like veins of peace.

The entire space radiated stillness — not emptiness, but presence. Like the building itself was breathing.

Pralay (quietly, awed): "This is your monastery…?"

Monk (smiling): "One of many. But this is home."

As they passed through the outer gate, a group of younger monks — perhaps no older than sixteen — bowed in unison.

Young Monk (bowing): "Welcome back, Great Elder Pax."

Pralay's eyes widened.

Pralay: "Wait… Great Elder…?"

The monk turned slightly, chuckling at Pralay's expression.

Monk: "They call me Dalai Pax. Titles follow old habits."

Another monk arrived with a staff and offered it with deep reverence. Pax accepted it but walked as before — unhurried, unburdened.

Inside, the courtyard buzzed briefly with motion. Monks moved to light ceremonial lanterns for the evening. Others chanted near the water altar, their voices low and deep, vibrating through the floor like a slow drumbeat of the earth.

More monks came to greet him. Some brought scrolls, others simply bowed. All addressed him as Great Elder. Some clasped his hands. Others smiled just to see him return.

No one looked surprised to see him walk in with a stranger.

Pralay (quietly, to himself): "He's not just a monk…"

As if sensing the thought, Pax turned.

Dalai Pax: "I serve this city. For many years now. As its spiritual guide… and as its Elder of this Monastery, for those who believe cities need such things."

He smiled again, half playful, half tired.

Dalai Pax: "Titles don't matter here. Respect does."

They entered an inner chamber — quieter, cooler, lined with tall candle stands. A novice monk brought a copper tray with warm tea and fruit, bowing once before leaving.

Dalai Pax: "Eat. Rest. You'll have your questions again in the morning — and they'll sound clearer with sleep."

Pralay sat slowly on the cushioned bench offered to him, accepting the tea with both hands. The warmth spread through his fingers and into his chest.

Outside the chamber, the last of the evening light faded into deep twilight. Lamps were being lit along the temple walls. The wind rustled prayer cloths like distant sighs.

For the first time since he had arrived in Bhoolok-Antar, Pralay felt still.

Not safe. Not sure. But still.

He looked across the room at the man who had led him here. Not a seer. Not a warrior. Just a monk — a man with a name that meant peace, who had built a sanctuary out of silence and shared it freely.

Pralay (softly): "Thank you… Great Elder Pax."

The old man gave no answer. He simply bowed his head in return.

Night fell like silk over the monastery.

The torches along the outer corridors dimmed. Chanting faded. Wind swept gently through the courtyards, rustling prayer flags like whispered verses. The halls that had echoed with movement during the day now held only stillness.

Inside his private chamber, Dalai Pax knelt before a low altar.

A brass lamp flickered gently at the foot of a small statue of Lord Buddha, casting elongated shadows along the walls. Coils of incense rose in curling patterns, their scent woody and deep. A full moon spilled soft white light across the floor through an open window.

Dalai Pax's eyes were closed. His hands rested on his knees, palms upward, fingers relaxed. He was still, breathing in a rhythm long forgotten by most. Not asleep. Not distracted.

Listening.

Then—the faintest shift in air behind him.

He didn't turn right away.

Only after a pause did he open his eyes and speak, his voice calm, unshaken.

Dalai Pax: "You've walked in silence. But silence does not make you invisible."

Behind him, two figures in black stepped out of the shadows. Their faces were masked, their presence precise — honed like knives. No weapons drawn yet, but danger clung to them like oil to flame.

Figure 1 (gruff, cold): "Where is the Buddh Stone?"

Figure 2: "Tell us. Now. And hand it over. We won't ask again."

Dalai Pax slowly turned, his knees creaking gently as he rose to his feet. He didn't flinch, didn't show fear. Only that serene smile — the one he wore when speaking to children, pilgrims, or strangers with heavy eyes.

Dalai Pax: "And if I told you… would that fill your emptiness?"

The first figure stepped forward, clearly irritated.

Figure 1: "Spare us your riddles, monk. You've hidden it long enough."

Figure 2 (mocking): "You think your words matter anymore? Your people kneel and chant while stones decide the fate of nations. And you think silence is strength?"

The incense crackled softly.

Dalai Pax tilted his head, his eyes reflecting the flame of the lamp like still water.

Dalai Pax: "When Siddhartha sat beneath the Bodhi tree, it wasn't to conquer the world. It was to understand why it breaks so easily."

He took a step forward.

Dalai Pax: "You came for a stone. But it's not the stone that breaks men. It's what they bring to it."

The first figure clenched his fists.

Figure 1 (furious): "ENOUGH!"

The second leaned forward, voice low and venomous.

Figure 2: "Where is it? Or do we tear this place apart, starting with you?"

Dalai Pax smiled again.

But this time… it was different.

Not peaceful. Not forgiving. Something darker.

Dalai Pax (quietly): "Ah. Then I see what must be done."

He lifted a hand and touched the edge of a prayer bell beside the lamp. Just one finger.

And in the next instant—

A deafening blast ripped through the chamber.

Light tore through the walls. The air cracked like thunder. Fire surged outward in a perfect sphere of golden light, consuming shadow and silence alike.

The figures vanished in the roar.

The moonlight blinked out.

And the monastery shook as if the mountain itself had awakened.

[End of Chapter]