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The light was not directional.
It was devotional.

It softened the carvings without clinging, like a promise that knew it would return. High above the gate, the devata received it not as gift, but as recognition. She did not seem lit—she seemed luminous.

I stood with my back to the trees, breathing with her. Her offering hand was not raised in ritual, but in presence. The blossom she held had already opened centuries ago—and had not yet finished opening.

The camera rested. I listened. What entered the frame was not image, but transmission.

In the studio, the gold returned not as pigment, but as vow. To honour what light chose to remember.


She stands
not before time,
but where time pauses
to listen.

Her hand
is not symbolic.
It burns
with what does not
consume.

There is a breath
between each carving—
a place the wind
refuses to enter.

That’s where
she waits.


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