Picture a jagged collage of temples, horses, and veils exploding into abstraction. At its heart, a woman’s form emerges as broken calligraphy. Her head tilts downward: a crescent of black ink indicating a bent neck, while her face is a grid of overlapping triangles and rectangles—ultramarine, saffron, and a bruise-purple that hurts the eyes. Where you’d expect an eye, a tiny red horse gallops upside-down; where a bindi might rest, a smear of emerald stands guard. Her hair, if it can be called that, erupts into a forest of indecipherable shapes—perhaps clay lamps or dismantled tabla drums. Here, the woman is less a figure than a force field of tension: India’s classical icons detonated into modern fragments, daring the viewer to piece together meaning from chaos.