“Listen, little sparks,” the jasmine would whisper, its white buds beginning to glow like tiny lanterns in the fading light. “Do you know why the sky turns deep blue, like the back of a peacock, before it goes to sleep?”

He had no thread left. No fire. No foam.

Your eyelashes are the pavva (shuttle). Your breath is the thread. Close your eyes and weave your own small sky. Tuck your feet under the blanket like Mallanna tucked the hills under the stars. If the Rakshasi of bad dreams comes, tell her: ‘My grandmother is counting the jasmine buds. My grandfather is guarding the eastern wind. I am inside the weaving.’