The Stone-Keeper's Secret

I. The Historians' Dispute

The stones don't speak in certain years,
They only weather, hold the fears
Of dynasties that rose and fell,
A timeless, fragmented tale to tell.

Did Someshvara's spire climb in ten-twenty's air,
Or a century later, in a king's new care?
Dhaky and Brown with Kramrisch debate,
While Ojha's twelfth-century seal they await.

The Vishnu temple, standing worn and grand,
Michell places first upon this land.
A puzzle built of sandstone block,
Resisting time's unflinching clock.

II. The Vassals' Game (Kiratakaupa)

First known as Kiratakupa's hold,
A prize for vassals, brave and bold.
Someshvara, of Paramara line,
Gained the Chaulukya's favour, a fate divine.

Then Alhana, Chahamana lord, took the stage,
His governorship marked on a stone-made page.
But power shifted, a relentless tide,
To Madanabrahma, in whom trust did reside.

His successor fell to Kirtipala's might,
As thrones changed hands from dark to light.

III. The Scars of War (The 1178 CE Inscription)

In eleven-seventy-eight, a record made,
Of a temple's wound, a violent grade.
Repairs were carved for Turushka blows,
The Ghurid threat, and all its woes.

When Muhammad of Ghor's armies came,
And lit the land with battle's flame.
But Chaulukya forces, at Kasahrada's field,
Made the invading tide to yield.

So Kiradu stands, a testament true,
To kings who built, and wars that came through.

Story

The Stone-Keeper's Secret

The desert wind, sharp with grit, was the only thing that moved freely through Kiradu. For the old caretaker, Bhanu, it was a living breath in a place of the dead. The scholars came and went, their voices full of dates and dynasties that Bhanu did not need. He knew the truth of this place not from inscriptions, but from the silence between them.

Today, a young historian from the city had arrived, his bag heavy with books. "I am studying the Paramara chieftain, Someshvara," the man, Anil, declared, pointing to the best-preserved temple. "The one who built this in the 12th century. Or was it the 11th? The historians can't agree."

Bhanu simply nodded, his eyes on the intricate carvings of the mandapa, its octagonal columns holding up the empty sky where a roof should be.

Anil spent his days scrambling over the ruins of the five temples, his camera clicking. He spoke of Madanabrahma of the Chahamana family, of Alhana and his son Kirtipala, and of the great battle against the Turushkas that had scarred the stones.

"Look here," Anil said one evening, excitement in his voice. He had found a section of wall on the Vishnu temple, which the scholar Michell had dated a century older than the rest. "This damage... it's not erosion. This is from a tool. A deliberate defacement."

Bhanu approached and ran a calloused finger over the gouged stone. "The Turushkas," Anil explained, his voice full of academic triumph. "The 1178 inscription records the repairs. This is proof of the Ghurid invasion, right here!"

Bhanu was silent for a long time. The sun began to bleed into the sand, painting the complex in shades of fire.

"That is not the story the stone tells," Bhanu said, his voice barely a whisper.

Anil scoffed. "And what story does it tell?"

"It tells of a day when two masters worked here," Bhanu began, his gaze distant. "The first built the Vishnu temple. His work was pure, a prayer in stone. Then came the new master, Someshvara's man, to build the grander temple. His style was different—more show, more gods, more war. The two masters argued. The new one, favored by the king, called the old one's work primitive. In a rage, the new master took a hammer and defaced the older temple, to build his own upon its reputation."

Anil stared, his historical narrative crumbling. "That's... a folktale. There's no inscription, no record of that."

"The stone is the record," Bhanu said, his eyes sharp. "You see a battle with outsiders. I see a battle within. The repair in 1178? It wasn't just to fix what the Turushkas broke. It was to hide the shame of what one of our own had done. They covered the scars with new carvings, but the deepest wounds remain. You can still feel the old master's sorrow here. It is why the Vishnu temple stands so alone, and why the wind sounds like arguing here at dusk."

The sun dipped below the horizon. A sudden chill gripped the air. Anil looked at the defaced wall again, and for a moment, he didn't see a historical artifact. He saw a crime of passion, a jealousy preserved for a thousand years.

He packed his bag in a hurry, the weight of his books feeling suddenly insignificant. He left without another word, the official history of vassals and invasions unsettled by the whisper of a more human, more tragic truth.

Bhanu watched him go. He then turned back to the Vishnu temple, placing a hand on the cold, scarred stone.

"The scholars only hear the shouts of kings," he murmured to the silence. "But if you listen closely, you can still hear the whisper of the first master's chisel, and the crack of the second master's hammer. That is the true history of Kiradu. It is not written in ink, but in regret."