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The trees did not speak. Even the wind withdrew, letting only the mist breathe. The moat received the silence without a ripple. The Deva stood at the threshold—not protecting, not commanding, simply there. His lean was not a gesture. It was listening.

Though his arms were worn by time, they still rested around the naga Vasuki—as if not restraining but remembering. This was not the posture of defence, but of devotion.

In the darkroom, I remembered that silence. I did not shape it into a print. I returned to it, again and again, coaxing the shadows until they softened like breath returning to a body.

His arm does not guard.
It listens. Rests.

His torso leans like memory
into the unseen—
not broken, but softened
by centuries of quiet rain.

The naga coils at his side.
They are joined still.
Not by force,
but by remembrance.

Mist does not hide them.
It anoints.


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