Beneath a white domed pavilion, framed by cypress trees and a sky that has no urgency, Ram and Sita sit turned toward each other. His bow rests at his side. Her hand reaches toward his. The world that would pull them apart — exile, duty, war — does not exist yet in this frame.
This is the painting people return to. Not for the gold or the jewels, though both are extraordinary. For the way two figures can fill a composition simply by looking at each other. It is what steadiness looks like when it is also tender.
