26th December 2004 – Indian Ocean
I am Captain Vidyut Awasthi, Naval Aviation, Indian Navy. That morning, the Indian Ocean was in chaos. A seismic monster had stirred beneath the sea, birthing the infamous tsunami that ravaged fourteen countries and claimed over two hundred thousand lives.
We were airborne in our SeaHawk MH R60, assigned to a reconnaissance mission. My co-pilot, Lt. Pulkit Mohanty, was silent, scanning the radar. The skies growled, ocean swelled like a wrathful beast. Choco-chip islands dotted the ocean beneath, helplessly trembling.
Then we saw it.
An island, uncharted, rising from the sea like a leviathan. I leaned forward. “Pulkit, that island… was it on our last mapping?”
He shook his head, eyes locked on the impossible. A massive stone plateau now towered above sea level, teeming with humanoid figures — tall, poised in geometric formations. They weren’t scattering from the impending disaster. They were waiting.
We zoomed in. Eight-feet tall beings — dark-skinned, sinewy, their skin shimmering like wet bronze. They held spears with metallic tips. Their formation... almost ritualistic.
Just then, the SeaHawk shuddered.
“Pulkit, why are we losing altitude?”
“We’re not! Instruments are fine— wait… no, they’re dead!”
The radar, navigation, and even the flare systems — gone. Static fizzled. The chopper didn't crash. It ascended, weightless. As if we were gliding on an invisible lift, drawn toward the island.
The figures didn’t attack. One raised a hand in a gesture — beckoning or warning, I couldn’t tell.
We landed gently. That’s when I realized: they weren’t just tall — they were imposing. Pulkit muttered, “We come in peace.”
They responded only with silence and gestures, nudging us toward a cave-like opening carved in the earth. Their eyes glowed faintly, like bioluminescent organisms from the depths of the Mariana Trench.
The ocean behind us — calm. The SeaHawk sat still, wrapped in vines as if it had aged decades in minutes.
Inside the cave, the world changed.
We were enveloped by iridescent walls that shimmered like an oil spill. Frescoes glowed — alien hieroglyphs dancing across stone, lit by prisms that had no visible source. The air was electric, fragrant with scents I’d never encountered — citrus, salt, metal, memory.
Pulkit was pale. I reached for my service revolver, but something in me said don’t. These beings were not hostile. They were… watching us.
The pathway ended in a vast chamber — a dome glowing with shifting lights, as if underwater yet dry. There was no ceiling, just a dark sky with no stars.
Then came the sound.
A low-frequency hum, then layers upon layers of tones — like choirs from other realms harmonizing in languages never spoken. The sound didn’t just reach our ears — it entered our minds, our skin. We were inside music.
The tall beings — now robed — moved enormous slabs of stone without touching them. They floated, effortlessly. Ancient tech? Telekinesis?
No. It felt... sacred.
I thought of the pyramids. I thought of the Anunnaki — ancient deities spoken of in hushed tones in Sumerian texts. Guardians, watchers, architects of fate.
Were we inside an underwater pyramid?
A sudden gust of wind. The cave split, revealing an abyss glowing from beneath — sixty feet deep. The hum grew louder. The lights intensified. Pulkit gripped my arm.
And then, blackness.
Unknown time. Unknown place.
We awoke in rooms that weren’t rooms. They were... imagined. Created. There was no food, yet we were nourished. No time, yet we existed in phases.
Our thoughts shaped the environment. I imagined my mother’s voice — I heard it. Pulkit dreamed of his childhood dog — it appeared beside him, wagging.
We breathed pure oxygen. Frequencies healed our injuries. There was no sun, no moon. Only color, aroma, sound, memory.
It wasn’t heaven. It wasn’t alien.
It was a library of consciousness.
The beings never spoke, but we understood them. They didn’t belong to Earth. Maybe Earth belonged to them — the original caretakers, long lost beneath sea and myth.
They showed us nothing. But we knew everything.
Then came the tremor.
The floor pulsed like a heartbeat. The sound returned — louder. Violent.
Then, darkness again.
26th December, 2024 – Indian Ocean
“Captain... wake up.”
Pulkit’s voice. My eyes opened. We were back on the island. The SeaHawk stood rusted, corroded. Vines covered its body like skin on bone.
I touched the fuselage. My nameplate — faded. Ten layers of grime.
We had left this spot just hours ago. Or had we?
We were found — airlifted. Taken to a naval hospital in Port Blair.
The date: 26th December, 2024.
Twenty years had passed. For us, it was twenty hours.
They told us we had vanished, presumed dead. Our families — old. Some gone.
But we had been... elsewhere.
Pulkit doesn’t speak much now. I write.
We lived a lifetime on oxygen and frequencies. We existed in a realm where sound was time, and thought was reality.
We never aged.
Doctors ran tests. Our vitals? Better than peak human condition. They called it a miracle. We know better.
Because last night, in my sleep, I heard it again.
That hum.
The frequency.
Calling us back.
To be continued...
React
