The next morning, the temple smelled of wet stone and incense. Sunlight poured through the open gopuram, painting golden stripes across the floor. Arjun was already at work, chiseling the Natarāja idol, his movements flowing like music.
I hesitated, feeling like an intruder, but he looked up and smiled. "Come," he said. "If you want to understand, you must learn by doing, not just watching."
I knelt beside him. My hands were small and clumsy against the heavy chisel, but he guided me patiently, adjusting my fingers, showing me how to feel the stone rather than push it. "The Śilpa Śāstra says the stone has ātman, a soul," he explained. "It responds to your energy. Respect it, and it will reveal its form."
I traced my hand along the stone, feeling its cold heartbeat. "Ātman… the soul… in stone?"
"Yes," he said. "Just like the Gita teaches:
Yogaḥ karmasu kauśalam — skill in action is yoga. (Bhagavad Gita 2.50)
"Every strike, every curve, every proportion… it is a practice, a discipline. You are shaping the stone, but also shaping yourself."
I nodded slowly. The weight of the lesson settled in my chest. I had never thought about my actions this way — not just the consequences, but the act itself. My blood on the sundial… even that had been a discipline I did not understand at the time.
Arjun guided my hands again, showing me the angula-traya pramāṇam — the three-finger measurement. "This is how we measure balance. Every god, every temple pillar, every curve of the Natarāja must obey proportion. The divine lives in proportion."
I looked at him. He was calm, precise, alive. And for the first time, I allowed myself to see him not as my father, but as a man — brilliant, gentle, and untouched by the storm that would one day follow him. My heart ached.
But the ache was not fear. It was something new, something dangerous: curiosity, admiration, a strange warmth I didn't understand.
He spoke again, his voice low. "The Gita also says:
Aham tvam sarvapāpebhyo mokṣayiṣyāmi mā śucah — I will free you from all sins; do not grieve. (Bhagavad Gita 18.66)
"Not just the stone, Mithra," he said, his eyes steady on mine. "We are here to free ourselves too. Each choice, each strike, each moment of care… it cleans the past."
I shivered. The idea that my actions could reach back, that I could touch the man he was and the man he would become… it was both terrifying and intoxicating. I wanted to stay here forever, learning, shaping, understanding. But I also knew the danger — the line between teacher and student, father and daughter, past and present… it was already blurring.
As we worked together, the temple seemed alive around us. The sound of chisels, the smell of wet stone, the whisper of Sanskrit verses carved centuries ago — it all wrapped around me. I realized that time here was not linear. Every strike we made, every lesson I learned, every thought I had… it was part of the Kāla Chakra, the eternal wheel.
And in that rhythm, in that dance of stone and time, I felt myself standing at the edge of something forbidden, something inevitable, and something beautiful.