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The corridor breathed in.  Columns receded into shadow.  I moved without sound, not from caution but from reverence.  Something in the stillness felt intact.  As if nothing had been lost—only quieted.

And there she stood.

A Devata.  Her form neither posed nor hidden.  One hand holding a lotus.  The other resting just above the navel, mid-thought.  Light from the open roof brushed her face—not revealing, but remembering.  It moved slowly, like a hand reaching for an old touch.  I raised the lens with care.  There was no wind.  Even the dust was still.

The exposure was long.  The silence longer.

Later, in the studio, I shaped the film with breath.  I did not craft her image—I listened for what still lived inside it.


She waits
not for time
but for the breath before it

Lotus at her side—
not a sign
but a silence held

The gods are not gone;
they have merely
slipped into stone

And those who still listen
may find them
waiting


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