Squatting on the scaffolding,

his finest chisels

unveil vertical flutes

in evolving pillars.

He invokes his prayers

in reverence of their form,

emerging from his peoples nāda-songlines,

following the journey in paths

with every precise chip.

Deities, apsaras stretch out

from the membrane,

in ochre and green,

separating him from this red rock.

He sits on the top of the hill

with his brethren,

glazing down at their revelation,

meeting the orange and red hues above.

Listening to invocations

in pillars holding reverberating patterns

of chants of the priests,

emanating from the caves,

resonating with the smoke of incense

and the scintillations of oil lamps.

And in this junoon,

the sculptor meets the priest.

Mahaveer peels out of the membrane,

chiseled by his imagination,

now both as faqirs,

in the darkness, from this rock,

as if salvation holds no meaning.