The field is alive with movement and purpose. Ploughs have carved the earth, harvesters gathered with dust on their shoulders and determination in their eyes. Bulls stand firm, their horns pointed, steady and alert, ready for what lies ahead. The sun watches from above, casting long shadows and a golden heat across the land. No one here is done until the sky turns orange and the last task is complete. It is a day built on grit, rhythm, and continuous effort.

A beginning that feels alive, like a burst of spring from somewhere sacred, where the divine lingers and life unfolds with grace. Branches stretch like arms mid-motion, carrying songs of birds that have stories to tell. There’s music in the leaves, in the way they move, in how they hold the weight of the skies. Everything here feels touched by light, by rhythm, by something ancient and beautiful that wants only to grow and be heard.

The pull of the mountains is never loud. It arrives like breath on cold glass. This piece echoes that silent call, like snow melting under first light, or the wind sliding through pine leaves. Woven through it are Himachali patterns, each shape carrying the weight of old songs, long journeys, and the warmth of wool by the fire. A calling back to altitudes where stories sleep under stones, and your name floats between peaks like a thread in the sky.