Before Imchen learned words, she learned the weight of a basket. Woven from bamboo strips, browned by years of rain, it is older than she is. It once belonged to her grandmother, then her mother, and now it grips her back like an old habit. That basket has carried red rice, salt bricks, dried fish wrapped in leaves. It has carried her husband’s funeral flowers. Her daughter’s wedding gifts. And today, it carries more flowers. Soft things. Pretty things. Imchen does not sell flowers because she loves them. She sells them because money does not care about love. Mon town wakes up. Smoke rises from coal stoves, smelling of pork and tea. Rain-soaked tin roofs shine as Konyak men sit together, drinking rice beer, their faces marked with warrior tattoos. “Ei, Imchen, thungbo?” (Where are you off to?) the old woman at the spice stall calls out. “Olo ase.” (Just the same old.) Imchen stretches her shoulders, setting the basket down for a moment. Once, long ago, her daughter would pick flowers from their garden and braid them into her hair. “Ama, why don’t you wear them too?” she had asked, laughing, pressing a bright red hibiscus behind Imchen’s ear. That was before her daughter left. Before the wedding. Before she packed her bags for Dimapur. Imchen does not blame her. Cities are greedy things. They swallow people whole, leaving behind only phone calls that grow fewer with time. A young girl stops at Imchen’s stall, fingers the bright petals. “Aunty, do you keep any flowers for yourself?” Imchen snorts. “Who keeps what they sell?” The girl pouts. “But don’t you like flowers?” Imchen does not answer. Instead, she picks the smallest hibiscus from the pile and tucks it behind the girl’s ear and says, “Now you look like a flower too!” The girl hesitates. “Can I take one?” Imchen smirks. “And what do I get?” Grinning, the child tucks a hibiscus behind her ear. “I make you a flower too!” Imchen shakes her head, but when she lifts her basket, it feels lighter. And today, for the first time in years, Imchen lets herself carry something soft, too.

“Papa!” I cried, losing all hope, seeing my father drift away from me. I fell on the grainy ground, gasping for the air my shuddering body never received. Soon, the piercing melody of my mother’s laughter filled my soul. The weight of my own body seemed to be crushing on the ground until everything turned red. The reddish hue of the sun glistened in my room as it ticked away from the horizon. I sighed as I realised that it was yet another nightmare. The buzz in my phone cleared the haziness in my thoughts. It was a reminder for today’s class at the local monastery. The cool breeze and the sound of chants calmed my nerves as I stepped onto the monastery’s premises. I used to tutor the younger monks in English on the weekends. It was the spiritual atmosphere that made the teaching experience more gratifying. After class, I used to talk to one of the monks regularly. He was in his early fifties and always sat on a bench at the monastery’s edge. I bowed my head and sat next to him. “It’s a sunny day,” I said, savouring the warmth of the sun. I continued, “If you don’t mind, can I ask you something?” The monk nodded. “My father abandoned me shortly after my mother passed away. He left me with my aunt and explained to her that all his grief over his wife’s passing had left him yearning for the truth about life. I resented him for leaving me alone. I always thought about how he failed as a father and how he left me with a baggage of fear and guilt to carry for the rest of my life. Do you think what he did was right, and do you think my resentment is justified?” With a smile, the monk added, “Your father’s desire to attain superior knowledge about this life was not irrational; nonetheless, his failures in managing his life before becoming a monk will be atoned for by life’s karma.” I nodded, and we spoke for a little while before I left. I turned away and muttered, “I hope God forgives me for my resentment. I hope God forgives my father by easing the pain of his Alzheimer’s. I thank God for these precious moments with my father and hope for more.”