Tsoin

Tsoin

My Pala is a wonderful thangka painter. He is extraordinarily humble, refuses to exhibit and his work will never truly be appreciated.

"This is the whole of the story and we might have left it at that had there not been profit and

pleasure in the telling..."

Before I learnt how to read stories I saw them. The adumbrations of wish fulfilling jewels I would watch, Goddesses would blush with deft strokes, a thousand eyes would want the palms of a thousand hands. Those eyes are what I fear the most when I write about my father. He would not be pleased with my licentiousness. The arrowroot gum smells remind me that I need to ask. But ask what and why? Write, I will.

Tonight, my courage is overpowered by the transluscent boxes of colour he keeps in two big trunks. They refuse to be roused.