The stone statue kept its left hand in view but refused to meet my gaze

In a quiet corner of a temple I happened upon in Kamakura, there stood an old stone statue, its surface roughened by years of wind and rain. It was about waist-high, with a roundness that felt oddly human. On closer inspection, I noticed that the figure held its left hand gently against its chest. I had no idea what that gesture meant, but in the world of Buddhist sculpture, each hand position—known as a mudra—has its own significance, such as the “gesture of granting wishes” or the “gesture of fearlessness.” Yet this particular statue had been so weathered by time that even its fingertips were no longer discernible. Perhaps it was nothing more than a whim of the craftsman, devoid of any intended symbolism.

Even when I tried to look at it head-on, the statue kept its face stubbornly turned toward its left hand, as if deliberately avoiding my gaze. It seemed to be shunning the bustle of the world, preferring instead to ignore my presence altogether. Kamakura is a city crowded with tourists, but it appears that even among the Buddhas, there are some who prefer to sulk in silence. Sometimes, these ancient stone statues seem to harbor emotions more complex than those of living humans. The darkened surface, mottled with moss and time, is not merely a sign of age—it is, in its own way, a wordless résumé of centuries.

Kamakura on Google Map

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