Ashes of Dharma

There was no Aarav now.

No name.

No spine.

No vessel.

Only breath.

Not the kind that moves lungs.

Not the kind that feeds cells.

The kind that is.

Presence without center.

Awareness without reference.

Action without identity.

It moved across the world without walking.

It entered people not like fire, not like wind—

but like recognition.

A mother standing still before yelling.

A soldier dropping his blade mid-swing.

A dying man choosing to breathe one last time, fully.

A child sitting quietly in a classroom, doing nothing—and feeling complete.

The breath touched them all.

Without words.

Without force.

Without need.

And those who felt it said only one thing:

"Something let go inside me."

Temples never rebuilt.

Statues never replaced.

Scriptures left untouched.

But the pulse remained.

In each body.

In each silence.

In each exhale not used to speak—but to be.