Temples of Sagar

Story—I don’t even know which number anymore.

Out of all the places in the world, I end up staying in the dharamshala(rest house) of a temple. Not just any temple, but one that belongs to monks who have spent their lives renouncing everything—silence, no possessions, no clothes, no indulgence. Just a pursuit of something higher, something cleaner. Enlightenment, they call it. A slow burning away of karma until nothing is left.

And then, after they’re gone, people build these massive temples in their name. Structures with rooms, corridors, rest houses—places where people like me can come and stay, pass through, observe, maybe feel something.

And somehow, I’m here.

It feels strange. Almost ironic. Because if there’s anything I’m tied to, it’s the world. Not just tied—I explore it, I indulge in it, I work with it. Especially through textiles. Fabric, of all things. The first thing that touches your body. The thing that shapes how you’re seen, how you feel, how you become someone else just by wearing it.

I work with that.

And here were people who chose to live without it entirely.

Sometimes I wonder—if they saw what I do, what I think, how I’ve lived… what would they say? Would they see it as unnecessary? As indulgence? As noise?

I don’t think I’ve committed any great sins. But I’ve lived. I’ve experienced. I’ve taken part in things that are very much of this world. And standing here, in this place built on the idea of leaving all that behind, it makes me feel exposed in a way I didn’t expect.

Like if people here really knew me—everything about me—they wouldn’t quite approve.

But then again, that’s life, isn’t it?

You carry parts of yourself quietly. Not exactly hiding, not exactly pretending—but layering. Like fabric. You present something, and beneath it, there’s more. Always more.

And I feel like here, those layers might get peeled back. Not because anyone is trying to, but because this place has a way of making you aware of them.

Today at dinner, I was sitting across from a woman I didn’t know. Simple meal. Very basic. The kind of food that doesn’t try to impress you. It just exists to nourish.

We started talking. I asked her where she was from. She mentioned Chanderi. Then she said something about her family, and that’s when I realized—she was a widow. There was a lot of movement in her, but also something sad in the way she sat there, eating her masala mixture.

Then her son came. And her brother-in-law. Someone mentioned me—that I’ve traveled, seen different places.

Suddenly, the attention shifted.

She told her son to stay, to listen to me. Like I had something worth hearing.

I was surprised to hear this.

Her son asked me If Europe is the smallest continent in the world. I didn't answer.

Out of all places, in this temple, in this quiet, contained environment, someone was looking at me not as someone misplaced—but as someone interesting. Someone with stories.

Her son looked at me with curiosity. Genuine curiosity.

And I just sat there thinking—this is unexpected.

Later, I walked out into the corridor. Long, old architecture. The kind that holds silence differently. The kind where your footsteps sound louder than your thoughts.

And again, it hit me.

Out of all the places, I’m here. Staying in a temple like this. For work that is about textiles, about craft, about something so deeply connected to the physical world.

It should feel contradictory.

But it doesn’t fully.

It just feels… interesting.

Like I’m standing somewhere in between. Not fully belonging to either side, but able to see both.

And maybe that’s the point.

Saransh