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Mist thickens like breath not yet exhaled.  The Western Gallery lies in shadow, stone still cold with night.  I walk slowly, each footfall attuned to uneven centuries.  My fingertips graze bas-relief—edges worn smooth by pilgrims and storm.  Then I see them.

A vanara, muscles coiled, jaw clenched.  A rakshasa, body arched in the moment of pain.  Yet there is no rage here—only intention.  No chaos—only choreography.  It is not hatred that drives the bite.  It is something older, purer.

I kneel.  My breath slows.  The shutter opens.

Stone before sunrise—
a single vow pierces flesh,
shadow drinks the light.

The silence deepens.  I walk on, but something walks with me—something left behind in silver grain, and something carried forward beneath the ribs.  I will meet it again in the darkroom.  I will coax it from shadow, tend it with toner like fire.

The print that emerges will not speak of war.  It will speak of devotion unbound—Bhakti Mukta—a vow that bites through illusion and opens into stillness.


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