Puskar

Puskar shuffled through the bustling Kathmandu market, a ghost in a city teeming with life. His once vibrant eyes, the color of turmeric at dusk, were now clouded with a sadness as permanent as the wrinkles etched around them. Each call of a street vendor, each burst of laughter, seemed to echo the hollowness within.

A worn leather satchel hung from his shoulder, heavy not just with its contents, but with the weight of a past that clung to him like the monsoon humidity.

The city, once a canvas of joy for Puskar, now mirrored the storm brewing in his heart, a storm born from a tragedy he carried with him everywhere he went.

Puskar wasn't always this weary soul. Years ago, his laughter had been as bright as the prayer flags fluttering in the mountain breeze. He'd been a skilled rug weaver, his fingers dancing across the loom, creating stories in vibrant threads. But then, fate, a cruel weaver itself, had intervened. A devastating accident (or perhaps an act of violence, the details remained shrouded in whispers) had stolen his everything - his family, his livelihood, the very essence of his joy.

Now, he was adrift, a lone thread separated from the rich tapestry of his life. He moved through the market, a stranger in a familiar land, his every step a testament to his resilience, yet haunted by the echoes of what he'd lost. But within that sadness, a flicker of defiance remained.

Puskar wouldn't let the tragedy define him entirely. He clutched the worn satchel tighter, a silent promise to find a new purpose, a new thread to weave into the tattered fabric of his existence. Perhaps, amidst the chaos of the market, he would stumble upon a chance encounter, a forgotten skill, or a sliver of hope that could help him mend the broken pieces of his life.