“Young Vishaka first sees the moon take shape in her father’s garden, cloaked among the flowers that trail her wake. Sandhya descends in her resplendent glory, silken in silver and pearls. For Vishaka, raised among thorns and soil, the moon descending is enough to make her heart skip a bea.”
It nestles close to the heart of the city, where the lord rests. Spun in silks and truths that taste of lies, in the storyteller’s market which is Samudhrapura’s glory. You’ve always found it ironic that a lord who never gave his tale away had fostered the silken market where all stories can be sold.