Story
A story woven from the threads of blending
history, art, and legend into a single tapestry.
The Stone-Sleep of Kiradu
The Thar Desert does not give up its secrets easily. It
guards them with sun and sand, and with stories that make men turn away. For
Dr. Aravind Rao, a historian of rational mind and weary heart, the ruins of
Kiradu were not a haunted spot, but a sanctuary. He had come to the complex of
five ruined temples, built by Solanki subordinates eight centuries ago, to
finish his life's work: a definitive study of its Māru-Gurjara architecture.
His days were spent in the company of ghosts he
understood—the master sculptors whose hands had shaped the reddish-yellow
sandstone. He traced the interlocking blocks of the Someshvara temple,
dedicated to Shiva, marvelling at friezes of horse and elephant riders frozen
in eternal charge. He spent hours in the Vishnu temple, sketching the highly
carved columns where deities and dancers, musicians and lovers, were locked in
a silent, stone symphony. The locals called it the "Khajuraho of
Rajasthan," and Aravind saw why; the art was unflinching in its
celebration of life, a stark contrast to the desolate silence that now
enveloped it.
But every evening, as the sun bled into the sand, the
caretaker, an old man named Bhanu, would appear. "Sahib," he would
say, his voice as dry as the desert air, "it is time. The curse stirs at
dusk."
Aravind would smile, a patronizing gesture he hated but
couldn't suppress. "The only curse here, Bhanu, is forgetting our
history."
"The history here is not meant to be remembered
after dark," Bhanu would insist, his eyes darting towards the intricately
carved apsaras. "Long ago, a sage grew angry at the pride of this city. He
cursed it. Anyone who remains within its bounds after sunset will be turned to
stone, joining the gallery they so admire."
It was a fanciful tale, Aravind thought, a folk
explanation for a city abandoned to the desert's slow conquest. He attributed
the locals' fear to the sheer, unnerving power of the place. The carvings,
especially the erotic ones, were so lifelike, so charged with a palpable
energy, that in the failing light, they seemed to breathe.
One evening, engrossed in translating a worn inscription
near the sanctum of the Someshvara temple, Aravind lost track of time. The sun
dipped below the horizon with a sudden finality, and the desert cold began to
seep from the stones. He looked up from his notebook to a world transformed.
The last embers of twilight painted the ruins in hues of violet and deep
orange, and the long shadows made the sculptures seem to move.
He packed his bag, a prickle of unease on his neck. It
was then he heard it—not a wind, for the air was still, but a sound like a low,
collective sigh. It seemed to emanate from the stone itself.
Shaking his head, he started for the gate. But a figure
caught his eye. In a niche where he was certain there had been only a carved
Yakshi holding a mirror, now stood a different sculpture. It was a man, his
face contorted in a silent scream, one hand outstretched as if begging for
help. The stone was the same reddish-yellow sandstone, but the style was
jarringly realistic, not divine. It looked… new.
Aravind’s rational mind scrambled for an explanation. A
prank? A recent addition? He stepped closer, his torch beam trembling. The
detail was horrifying—the panic in the eyes, the wrinkles of the dhoti, the
veins on the back of the hand. It was a perfect, petrified man.
A low chuckle echoed through the courtyard, a sound of
grinding pebbles. He spun around. The temple complex was no longer a ruin. It
was alive.
The apsaras on the walls were undulating in a slow,
sensual dance, their stone limbs moving with a grace that was both beautiful
and monstrous. The gods and demons locked in battle on the friezes were now
truly struggling, their movements accompanied by the faint, gritty scrape of
stone against stone. The entire temple was breathing, its sacred, sensual
energy awakening with the stars.
He saw them then—other figures amongst the ancient
carvings. A British officer in a red coat, frozen mid-stride. A local tribesman
with a rifle, his face a mask of terror. All turned to stone, all integrated
into the temple's narrative, their mortal fear a stark counterpoint to the
celestial bliss of the original art. The curse was not a myth. It was a
digestive process. The temple consumed the living and made them part of its
eternal, stone story.
The sighing grew louder, becoming a whisper that filled
his mind. "Stay… join the dance… become eternal…"
Terror seized him. He ran, stumbling over broken pillars,
the whispers and grinding stone following him. He felt a creeping numbness in
his toes, a stiffness in his legs. He glanced back and saw the stone path, pale
and cold, spreading from his own footprints.
With a final, desperate burst of will, he lunged through
the complex's ancient gateway and collapsed onto the sand of the open desert.
The whispers ceased. The numbness receded, replaced by a pins-and-needles
agony.
The next morning, Bhanu found him shivering by the
roadside, a mile from the complex. Aravind could not speak of what he had seen,
only that he believed.
He left Kiradu that day, his research unfinished. But he
took something with him—a single photograph on his phone. It was a close-up of
a small, peripheral frieze he had taken days before. It showed a
scholarly-looking man, hunched over a notebook, a look of academic curiosity on
his face. The stone of his body was the same reddish-yellow as the rest of the
temple, but the style was jarringly modern. And it was a perfect likeness of
himself.
The temple had already started to claim him. And Aravind
knew, with a certainty that chilled him more than any desert night, that the
art of Kiradu was not yet complete. It was merely waiting for its next subject
to make the mistake of staying after sunset.
