Listening for the Drum Between Raindrops
The sandstone gleams with dew, each droplet resting briefly before slipping into a vine-carved groove. The sound—softer than a moth’s wing—is lost to the jungle, but the stone remembers.
The apsara stands in a quiet rhythm. Not posed, but listening. Her fingers offer a gesture that does not close. A pause that does not end. I lean into the hush, aligning lens and breath. The tripod settles like a spine into earth.
I press the release and wait. Not to take, but to receive.
In the stillness, the world becomes tonal: light in gradients, sound in vapour. Her anklets do not chime, yet I hear them—the memory of motion in a body now held by time. The exposure completes, and the air returns like an aftertaste.
Later, in the darkroom, the chiaroscuro flows from silver grain, not as invention, but as retrieval. The stone becomes skin. The silence, voice.
The print arrives not as a product, but as an echo—the one I first heard beneath cloud and rain.
Her silence turns
wild rain into measured pulse;
roots listen, undisturbed.Light rests on a braided crown—
echo of a thunder that never breaks.She offers two fingers,
opens a gate inside the chest
where stone may learn to sing.
Also in Library
The Weight of Light
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.
The Silence Between Temples
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.
Hands of the Sculptor — The Craft as Meditation
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.
