Complimentary worldwide shipping on orders over $400 · No import tariffs for most countries

0

Your Cart is Empty

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.


Also in Library

Where light lingers, time kneels. The world waits to be seen — not taken, but received.
The Weight of Light

3 min read

In the hush before dawn, light gathers until waiting becomes prayer.
Long exposure teaches surrender — to breathe with time, to let the unseen complete the image.
What remains on film is not possession, but trust made visible.

Read More
The Silence Between Temples
The Silence Between Temples

3 min read

Between one breath and the next, the world holds its pulse in silence.
Here, between temples, devotion hums without voice—light becoming memory, memory becoming air.
Step softly into the space where sound has already bowed,
and feel the sacred linger in what remains unspoken.

Read More
Hands of the Sculptor — The Craft as Meditation
Hands of the Sculptor — The Craft as Meditation

1 min read

In the hush of the galleries, the sculptor listens rather than strikes.
Each breath, each measured blow, opens silence a little further.
Unfinished reliefs reveal the moment when mastery becomes meditation—
when patience itself is carved into being,
and the dust that falls at a mason’s feet becomes the residue of prayer.

Read More