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The path was empty. The hour just beginning to close. Shadows leaned longer than the stone itself. But there, along the central gate, something remained—not shadow, not light. A hush. She stood in it as if born from it: the devata, carved in high relief, yet untethered from the wall.

She had already gathered the fire. It was there in her crown, in the unfurled flower at her hand. Not radiating, but contained. I remember adjusting the lens as if in reverence, not precision. There are moments when the image is not taken—it is offered. She was not reflecting the sun. She was remembering it.

I stood for a long time before I exposed the film. There was nothing to wait for, and everything. In the studio, the final toning in gold did not complete the image—it completed the vow.

She does not rise—
she receives.
A blessing of flame
without heat,
without end.

Her hand is the altar.
Her gaze is the vow.
Not a goddess above,
but something quieter:

what light becomes
when it knows
it will never return.


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