Chanak Chakraborty adjusted the shotgun mic with gentle care, like a craftsman tending to a fragile bloom. It was dusk in November 2025, and the dying sun painted the pale neoclassical façades of St. John’s Church in soft gold. The hush in the courtyard felt sacred, broken only by distant traffic and the rustle of leaves. As a sound engineer, he was here to record ambient sounds – footsteps, wind, and creaking pews, for a heritage-audio project. What he found, though, would be more than a simple recording.
Around 245 years ago, in the dim lamplit drawing room of Government House, Governor-General Warren Hastings leaned over a leather-topped table. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke, and candles flickered against high windows overlooking the Hooghly River. Across from him sat Lieutenant James Agg, of the Bengal Engineers, tall and meticulous, with architectural plans rolled under his arm.
“Mr Agg,” Hastings said quietly, “this church must be more than ornamentation. It will be a symbol, a fortress of faith, but also of British power in Bengal.” Agg nodded, unrolling his sketches: columns inspired by St. Martin-in-the-Fields in London, a portico, and an ambitious steeple. “Yes, sir. A graceful yet strategic building, but your point?”
Hastings’s eyes glinted. “Calcutta is our seat, but we remain vulnerable. The Hooghly lies not far, and in times of unrest… it would be wise, Architect, to consider escape should we need it.” Agg paused. The idea was audacious. “An escape route … to the river?” “A discreet one,” Hastings replied, voice soft but firm. “Something hidden from all but a few.”
Agg’s heart pounded. He was an engineer, a man of stone and mortar, but had never designed or worked on a secret passage. But he recognised the stakes. “It will complicate construction,” he said, “but I can draw plans.” They conferred late into the night, candlewicks dimming, shadows dancing on the walls. The governor-general made notes. It was understood – this church must serve not only as a house of worship, but as an insurance policy; a silent guardian by the river.
Spring in 1784 saw the first real stir of labour at the site donated by Maharaja Naba Krishna Deb of Shovabazar. The plot, once an old burial ground, now consecrated for a new purpose, was being cleared under Agg’s supervision. The smell of damp earth, mingled with fresh timber and mortar, filled the air. But not all materials for the church would come from nearby brick kilns. The stones were being brought in from the medieval ruins of Gaur – the once-great capital of Bengal, its crumbling citadel and mosques lying in quiet decay.
These weren’t just any stones: blue-grey marble slabs, once part of royal tombs, stripped from Gaur’s ancient foundations. Future historians would describe the process as less donation and more plunder. They would go on to say that “the ruins of Gaur were practically robbed” to build the church.
Agg felt a quiet tremor in his chest as he oversaw the loading of the stones onto barges bound for Calcutta. These stones had borne witness to kings, sultans and courtiers, to temples, mosques and palaces. They had once echoed with Hindu prayers, Muslim azaans, and Buddhist chants in kingdoms long gone. Now, they would anchor a new edifice of colonial power and resonate with Christian songs.
Over months, the church took shape: the towering spire rising, brick laid with precision, columns standing proud. The sanctuary floor was paved with that blue-grey marble, cold beneath the feet, and heavy with history. The sound of chisels on rock, the thud of hoisted stone, and the soft whisper of workers’ voices – these became the daily hymn of construction.
On a sultry afternoon in 1787, Hastings returned to oversee progress. He and Agg climbed the scaffolding to inspect the tower. Below, the river gleamed in the distance. Hastings placed a hand on Agg’s shoulder. “You’ve done well, my friend,” he said. “This church will stand for centuries, and if needed, the path we planned remains in shadow.”
A few days later, on 24 June 1787, St. John’s Church was consecrated in a solemn and grand ceremony. The morning air was crisp, unheard of in that sultry land, as members of the committee, clergy, and British officials gathered. Lord Cornwallis presided; Hastings beamed with satisfaction. The portico, framed by Doric columns and crowned by the slender spire with its enormous clock, gleamed in the sun.
Inside, tall windows filtered light across the blue-grey marble floor. Agg surveyed the nave, rows of pews awaiting worshippers. Just beside the altar hung Johann Zoffany’s painting of The Last Supper, gifted to the church, but with a twist: Zoffany had given it an “Indian touch,” infusing familiar faces, turbans, and local water jugs into the scene. The walls held marble memorial tablets, many inscribed for British officers and civil servants, but with touches, women in sarees and men in turbans, that subtly spoke of this land. That evening, as the sun set over Kolkata, the first bell tolled, echoing into the Hooghly, a resonance as old as exile and yearning.
While the church thrived, Gaur continued to linger in memory, not merely as a ruin, but as a palimpsest of empires, faiths, and thundering histories. The once-grand city, Gauda, Gaur, or Lakhnauti, first rose to true prominence in the 7th century under King Shashanka, the formidable ruler often regarded as the first independent king of unified Bengal. After his death, the region saw a succession of powers: the Pala Empire, rising with its Buddhist vision; the Sena dynasty, re-establishing Brahmanical traditions; and later the Deva kings, each leaving strands of culture woven into Gaur’s evolving identity. The Gauḍa region became a province coveted by multiple pan-Indian empires, its fertile plains and strategic rivers making it a jewel in the subcontinental chessboard.
By the late 12th century, Gaur’s political winds shifted again as the Turko-Afghan governors of Bengal established new capitals, and by the 14th century, the Independent Bengal Sultanate made Gaur its imperial seat. Under rulers like Shamsuddin Ilyas Shah, Gaur transformed into a radiant metropolis, its citadel fortified, its palaces embellished, and its mosques soaring with terracotta grace. The city’s bazaars overflowed with Persian textiles, Chinese porcelain, Bengali muslin, and the fragrance of distant continents. Portuguese travellers compared its wealth to Lisbon, marvelling at its size, its avenues, and its river ports shimmering with commerce.
But empires are autumnal things. By the mid-16th century, Gaur’s fate began to crumble: the Ganges shifted course, pulling life away from the city’s veins; epidemics, especially plague, swept through its crowded quarters; political centres moved elsewhere. Houses collapsed into dust, marble tombs cracked under monsoon skies, and roads vanished under forests. And today only fragments endure, the grand Dakhil Darwaza, the Firoz Minar, and scattered arches. Standing like lonely sentinels, echoing distant songs in brick and terracotta. And the stones of marvellous gates, the marble of tombs, some of these were taken, without ceremony, to become part of a church in a city by the Hooghly. In the shadow of St. John’s, history’s weight was literal.
Back in the present, Chanak crouched in the soft grass of the church courtyard, microphones catching the last bird calls. He pressed record, closed his eyes. The courtyard was cool now, evening settling like a velvet shawl. A stray breeze stirred dry leaves. Then a faint creak. Footsteps. Not many, just a whisper of movement from within the crypt. Chanak froze. The crypt was sealed, he knew, but the very place of Job Charnock’s mausoleum lay below, and in his gut he felt an old secret stirring.
He rose, the mic still recording, and approached the heavy stone door at the crypt’s entrance. His heart thudded like a drum in his chest. He traced his fingers over the carvings on the door – dips, grooves, and subtle incongruities. There must be some mechanism. His breath shallow, he whispered, “Hello?” No reply, but somewhere in the dark, he sensed a hollow space that wasn’t simply part of a vault. He kneeled, shining his phone’s torch along the edges. There: a tiny seam, a hidden hinge perhaps. His pulse quickened. He pressed gently, and a part of the stone swayed inward. His hand trembling, he nudged more firmly. The wall shuddered and gave way.
A narrow corridor: rough-cut, damp air, and the musty smell of time. He didn’t speak. He trained his mic at the entrance. Silence answered him. Then faintly, almost inaudible, the drip of water. Long footsteps? A distant echo, like boots on stone. He shone his light into the void. A tunnel, stretching downward, deeper into the shadow, gaped through the darkness. His fingers tightened around his mic stand, his breath trembling. He stepped in.
The corridor sloped gently, brick walls glistening with moisture, the air growing cooler. The sound of a river came to him faintly, a distant murmur – tide lapping, the Hooghly breathing. He paused, listening, and recording. Chanak did not shout. He did not run. He simply stood, swallowed by history, in that hidden underworld beneath St. John’s, where stones stolen long ago whispered the story of lost kingdoms.
In that moment, he realised: this tunnel must remain secret. To speak of it would invite fame, scrutiny, perhaps even desecration. Not all stories are meant for the world. Some are meant to be carried quietly, like a hymn, in the heart. So he sealed the entrance again, careful as a lover closing a fragile door, and retraced his steps upward. The crypt door slid shut behind him, silent. He wiped his palms on his jeans and exhaled.
To the traveller who comes centuries later, wandering into the courtyard of St. John’s Church in the city of Kolkata at dusk: pause, and breathe in the heavy air of memory. Look down at the floor – the marble may be blue-grey, but its soul is ancient, born in the lost city of Gaur, carried along the Hooghly, borne into this place of worship. If you listen closely, past the chime of the clock tower and the murmur of the river, you might just hear faint echoes: the footsteps in a hidden tunnel, the whisper of stone, the heartbeat of a kingdom long gone. And if your heart dares, lean close, for the quiet secrets of this place are not written on plaques. They live in the stones, in the shadows, in the stillness between breaths. May your silence be reverent, and your wonder be guarded – for some doors are better kept closed than reopened.
Copyright © 2025 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
Thank you Ned for liking this story so much and reblogging it. Now so many more people would be able to read it.
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Will be reading this a little later but thanks for this 👍
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My pleasure in sharing it. Do read when you feel like. I am sure that you would love it.
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I can’t wait. 🙏
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A captivating story and enjoyed thoroughly. As always loved the descriptions and it took me to the place instantly. Wish you could write a story on Sri Padmanabhaswamy temple in Trivandrum sometime. The vaults are intriguing…
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Yes, I have heard about it. Why not, will save the thought in my story idea bank. Thank you for your beautiful comment. I always treasure your appreciation
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🙏
Aum Shanti
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Thank you so much.
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Trishikh, I felt like I was there in each stage of the story. That is your gift… rich description that captures the reader’s attention and interest from start to finish and getting the reader to sympathize with the twists and turns of the plot.
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You are so kind. Thank you. I will do my best to keep on writing these stories for as long as I can.
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a very heavy read and that was the escape tunnel they built centuries ago
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I am so glad that you liked the story, yes it is a bit heavy indeed.
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Once again, Trishikh, you have excelled in the mastery of storytelling and the short history of mankind. I couldn’t stop reading the words that brought to life the events from centuries ago to the present time. You describe the construction of St. John’s church and the hidden escape passage to the river in detail, pulsating with smell and sound. I cannot wait for the next wonderful story!
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, It’s such a pleasure to share a story with you. Your words of appreciation gives me much encouragement to continue writing these stories. The history of this church has always intrigued me. I have always wanted to write a story on it. Good that I got to write it finally;.
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Thank you, dear Trishikh, for the beautiful reply! As always, you are more than welcome!
Joanna
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You’ve done it again.. another brilliant tale.. thank you ❤️
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Dear Fiona, always treasure your appreciation. I am so happy that you liked this story too.
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Beautiful. I remembered the time we spent inside and outside the church with our guide Amitava. It is a beautiful place and you have brought it alive.
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So glad Lakshmi that I could stir old memories of yours of this ancient church.
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This story beautifully intertwines history and mystery, bringing the past to life through vivid details and rich atmosphere. The secret tunnel beneath St. John’s adds a thrilling, almost sacred tension, while the reflections on stolen stones and lost cities deepen the narrative. Reading it feels like walking quietly through centuries, listening for echoes of the past.
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Thank you so much for liking the story and commenting on it with such deeply felt reflections. I really appreciate your input. It adds value to the story.
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Another superbly told story with so much history intwined. Loved it.
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Dear Sumita, thank you for liking this story as well. It really gives me great joy to receive your appreciation.
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Fascinating history that you have woven into a lyrical fiction. I loved the characterisation of Chanak – a dedicated engineer, a craftsman with attention to detail and such a wonderfully sensitive protagonist.
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Dear Kajoli, so glad that this story appealed to you so much, especially the character of Chanak Chakraborty.
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Amazing gift of words! Thank you.
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Thank you so much. Always a pleasure to write and share a good story.
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The British tried to impose a new religion using some of the building blocks of Indian civilization. They did not succeed. Only 2% of Indians are Christian.
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I personally think that Christianity had a very positive influence on India. Many missionaries were very sympathetic towards Indians, and did a lot for the population. Most of the modern day medical and education system is gift of Christianity.
As a religion it did not spread so much, simply because it was the religion of the oppressor. And also, India was already a land of many religions for thousands of years. Even Christianity had come long before the East India Company, with St. Thomas on the shores of the state of Kerala, where around 18% of the population is Christians.
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Thanks for the further information, Trishikh. Yes, Mother Teresa was a wonderful example of help to those who needed it. Glad to hear that schools and health care also came from the church.
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Yes, no one can deny the contribution of the Church in various fields in India. Still today convent education holds much attraction for the majority of Indian parents irrespective of their personal/ ansestoral religion.
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I was fortunate to have met Mother Teresa on many occasions. Used to regularly visit Mother House for various voluntary social work, as a student.
She showed that with true love and selfless devotion, one can make something as powerful and as prosperous as any business empire.
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How wonderful to know. She was someone I admired greatly.
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I think there is no one in this world who does not appreciate her. Calcutta is blessed to have had her love and care. She is a Saint that I got to see in my lifetime. Not many get this opportunity to see, live, and work with a Saint.
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A blessing indeed!
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another cracker maate, the history was very real, great write.
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Dear William, thank you so much. Yes, all of the history is very true. Only the existence of the tunnel is a rumor. No one really knows for sure whether it exists for real, but people have talked about its existence for many years.
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spot on friend, keep doing what yout doing, entertaining us..
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Will keep on doing that.
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Another piece masterly visually storytelling, of a journey through history’s timeless monuments.
Your story touches on that archeologically conundrum ‘if stones could speak’. Stones present the historical landmarks of the past but also carry us into the realm of mysticism.
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That is so true. Any stone’s journey started from the very birth of our planet. Heat became solid, the solid disinterested, became dust and again solidified, became mountains, became dust again, and became mountains, till it was cut as stone and used for construction in one project, then ransacked to be placed into another project. Its journey never seems to seize. This is so intriguing to think of, really gives me goosebumps – “if only stones could speak.”
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Another expertly crafted visual narrative, depicting a journey through the enduring monuments of history.
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Thank you Indrajit so glad that you liked this story as well. Always a pleasure to receive your appreciation, I treasure it dearly.
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This was an absolutely captivating read. The way you wove together the present-day ambience of St. John’s Church with the deep, layered history of Gaur was brilliant. The transitions between centuries felt seamless, and the hidden tunnel mystery added a haunting depth to the narrative. Your storytelling is rich, atmospheric, and profoundly immersive. Truly remarkable work!
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Thank you so much for this deeply reflective comment. It adds to the charm of the story. So glad that you liked the tale so much.
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Fascinating story. It’s criminal that they stole all that stone from Gaur.
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New empires are most of the time built on the bones of an old one. That’s how the world has lost so much of its history. The stories however have a way of surviving – gradually transforming from truth to fairytale/ legend/ folklore.
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Beautifully written.
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Thank you so much. Always a pleasure when someone enjoys one of my stories.
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Thank you so much for this deeply moving and captivating story — I truly felt like I was walking through the corridors of time with your narrative. As I read, I sensed how the past (with all its memories and prayers) and the present (with its dazzling grandeur) collided in a single space — weaving a sensation unseen yet profoundly real. I am touched and hopeful that many more souls will also feel that vibration.
What truly amazed me is how you discovered that hidden clue — as if the tunnel and the breath of the past called you to look closer. Your sharp eyes reveal stories buried in stone, giving us a new understanding. I am in awe, because you showed us that history does not merely wait to be found — it chooses whom it whispers to.
Thank you for the gift of a narrative that opens both the eyes and the heart — because through stone, secret corridors, and the silent echoes of the past, you invite us to listen to history with reverence. May this story continue to live in many hearts, and may your hope to preserve historical heritage and human dignity be fulfilled — becoming a small flame that kindles curiosity and empathy in our generation.
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Wonderfully written! Keep up good writing.
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Thank you so much Anamika. Cannot write these stories without your help.
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I agree , some secrets must be kept! Thanks for sharing
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Yes, that is so true. You are most welcome.
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I am a bit behind with my reading, but I won’t want to miss any of your stories, so I am getting there.
I googled Dakhil Darwaza and Firoz Minar, and they looked just as expected from your description. I am so glad that the looters didn’t tear them down as well. Again, your story is very captivating, and I was living through the centuries with it.
I like that the secret of the hidden tunnel was kept. Not everything needs to be made public.
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I am so glad that my story made you do a little bit of research. That is such a great joy for me. Yes, we are lucky when certain structures are spared while sucking a city. They give us an unique window to the past.
Thank you so much for liking the story. I always treasure your appreciation.
There have always been rumors about this tunnel, however nothing has ever come to the light.
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