I watched a cutter in a quiet Mathura lane turn folded paper until it seemed thinner than breath. Each notch was deliberate: lotus vein, peacock eye, cow bell, the small curve of a flute held just outside the visible world.
The discipline is not decoration
The stencil asks the hand to obey a mirror. One careless flourish breaks the temple of the page, so the maker works from the center line outward, letting devotion become measurement and measurement become tenderness.