𝙋𝙀𝙉𝘿𝙐𝙇𝙐𝙈 | 𝙎𝙥𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚 | 𝙈. 𝙊'𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙖

6| 𝙐𝙣𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙

┅╍━━🕷️🧿🕸️━━╍┅

(𝙑𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙬𝙖'𝙨 𝙋𝙊𝙑)

(October 2022)

Red was elusive, its exact shade difficult to extract from the tiny glass bottles nestled within the sling of webs holding up the paintbox, yet exuberant, breathing vitality into everything it touched. A dash of chrome yellow lingered near the splotch of red on the palette, the hues merging to form the vermillion that gave the crimson flowers their flaming underbellies. The violet from the sky blue and red deepened the shadows, defined their outlines, and gave them poise amongst the emerald green leaves.

Vishwa drew a slow long breath, swiping a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her loaded brush forged petal after petal, watching them open to her. Little petals arranged in groups of four, shaped like stars, peering at her from their ample bunches, long slender golden stamens arching out from their bosoms.

The flowers she had painted were ashoka blossoms, a flower highly revered in Nepal. Her maternal home, the Kumari's palace, and the Kamar Taj had plenty of trees planted outside their walls, their branches stooping with the weight of the scarlet floral bunches in spring.

When she had last seen her sister, Vrinda was wearing a crown onto which ashoka flowers had been painstakingly strung in rows.

Saliva clogged her throat. Her eyes stung as the memories flashed across her mindscape. The brush quivered in her usually steady hand.

Ashoka, the word meant sorrowless in Sanskrit.

•••••

(June 2011)

Kathmandu hadn't changed much since she last visited it the year before. The cobblestone streets glistened from the late evening drizzle, the air smelled of the camphor being burned in the little shrines, the lighted incense sticks, the marigold garlands hung on the statues and across the stone murals of deities, the roasted peanuts and other delicacies sold by street vendors and of the sweet, dark petrichor as dusk neared. Chants in both Pali and Sanskrit echoed through the streets as devotees flocked to the places of worship for their evening prayers, the jingles of a thousand brass bells filled the air, each tone ringing out clear, sonorous, and sacred.

Aunt Mei's hand tightened around hers as they waded through a crowd of commuters returning home after a long day of work, walking past the rows of closely-packed colourful buildings into the town square. Little flags in primary colours bearing Buddhist mantras flapped on their strings, the pigeons roosting underneath the struts of the tall, ancient, multistoried sandstone buildings cooed and flapped their wings. The spires on their red-tiled pyramidal roofs glinted in the light of the setting sun, the rays lighting up the layers of red cloth frills fringed with gold fluttering underneath the sharp edges of the roofs.

The backpack on her back had her clothes, her toothbrush, and the blue seal plushie from the arcade. As her arms wrapped her blue cotton jacket tighter around herself, the dropping temperatures sending a shiver through her body, Vishwa felt her stomach growl.

"Can I get some Wai Wai?" Vishwa asked. She didn't have to turn to feel the vendor's judgemental stare drilling into the side of her neck. Her posture stooped a little when she heard one of the other customers whispering to the vendor in Nepali. Something about the youngsters forgetting their mother tongue, Vishwa didn't pay attention to the whole thing. Aunt Mei sighed, dug her pockets, and fished out a crisp hundred rupee note.