There are shrines that rise into the sky, crowned with shikhars and echoing with bells. And then there are shrines that barely rise at all.
A stone.
Rough. Uncarved.
Smeared with sindoor.
You may find him at the edge of a field, where cultivation ends and the wild begins. At a crossroads where paths hesitate. Near a riverbed where the land shifts with the seasons. There is no announcement of his presence. No priest waiting beside him. No queue of devotees. And yet, those who belong to that land do not pass him without acknowledgment. This is Mhasoba!