I wanted the object to arrive already heavy — a key is nothing until you know what it opens, and I wanted her to know. The Chola-Venetian fusion lets me marry two great trading empires, both obsessed with the sacred and the commercial existing in the same breath. The converted chapel is that tension made architectural. I dressed her for power she didn't ask for — those temple bells down her spine mean she can never move silently, can never forget she's being heard. The key at her sternum sits where a crucifix would, where a thaali would. It's become devotional without her permission.