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“What is remembered in silence cannot be lost.”

The rain had passed before I arrived, but the stone still held its breath. I stepped into the hush of the corridor, where the carved armies of the Mahabharata stretched endlessly across the wall. The air was thick with the after-scent of water and old thunder. The figures, for all their fury and motion, seemed to float.

And then—there he was.

One dancer. One soldier. One soul in mid-stride.

He was not larger than the others, not central in the frieze, not crowned or adorned. But something in the way he lifted his foot—lightly, almost shyly—and raised his hand toward nothing, held me still. The gesture was not martial. It was reverent. As if the moment before the blow were more sacred than any glory it might bring.

I stood there, breath slowing. I could not photograph immediately. I waited until the gesture no longer seemed like stone, but memory—until I felt what the shadow still remembered.

stone arm lifted high—
a breath stilled before the storm,
shadow falls in light


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