# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 39"
The mist clung to the Himalayan foothills as Su Yao's jeep navigated a winding road through terraced rice fields, passing stone stupas draped in prayer flags. Below, the Kathmandu Valley spread out like a patchwork quilt, with the golden spires of Swayambhunath Temple glinting in the distance. At the edge of a Newari village, where brick houses with carved wooden windows clustered around a temple square, a group of artisans sat on woven mats, their hands moving over lengths of fabric painted with vibrant religious motifs. Their leader, a man with a shaven head and saffron robes named Pandit Raju, stood as they approached, holding a *paubha*—a traditional Newari painting on cloth—depicting the god Vishnu. "You've come for the *bhaka*," he said, his Newari language mixed with Nepali, referring to their sacred woven textiles.
The Newari people, indigenous to the Kathmandu Valley, have practiced their textile arts for over 2,000 years, blending Hindu and Buddhist traditions into every stitch and brushstroke. Their *bhaka* textiles, often used as temple hangings or ceremonial wraps, feature intricate patterns of deities, mandalas, and mythological scenes. Each design is copied from ancient manuscripts, with strict rules about color (saffron for purity, crimson for power, gold for divinity) and symbolism (lotus flowers for enlightenment, conch shells for prosperity). Creating *bhaka* is a spiritual practice—artisans fast and meditate before beginning, and each piece is blessed by a priest to infuse it with *prana* (life force). Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this sacred craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create textiles that honored Newari spirituality while adding durability to the delicate fabrics. But from the first greeting, it was clear that their understanding of "sacred" and "innovative" was as different as the Himalayas and the ocean.
Raju's daughter, Maya, a 28-year-old *bhaka* artist who also taught at a local art school, unrolled a textile across a wooden platform. Its surface featured a blue-skinned Shiva, his third eye rendered in gold leaf, surrounded by dancing ganas (divine attendants) in red and green. "This *bhaka* took six months to weave and paint," she said, her voice reverent. "I chanted the *Shiva Panchakshari* mantra 108 times before each session. It will hang in the Pashupatinath Temple during *Maha Shivaratri*. These patterns are not decorations—they are portals to the divine."
Su Yao's team had brought digital printers and metallic fabric paints, intending to replicate the *bhaka* designs on a larger scale using their seaweed-metal blend for a global exhibition of religious art. When Lin displayed a digital print of Maya's Shiva *bhaka* with added metal accents, the artisans gasped, some covering their mouths in shock. Raju's uncle, Guruji Hari, a 75-year-old priest with a long white beard who oversaw temple rituals, clapped his hands sharply. "You think you can print the divine with machines?" he shouted, his voice echoing across the square. "You think metal from the sea can replace gold leaf blessed by mantras? This is blasphemy!"
Cultural friction deepened over materials. The Newari weave *bhaka* base fabric from Himalayan sheep's wool, spun by hand and dyed with natural pigments: turmeric for yellow, indigo from the Terai plains for blue, and *kala jeera* (black cumin) for black. The dyeing process is timed to align with astrological events—full moons for saffron, new moons for indigo—to ensure the colors carry cosmic energy. Gold leaf, applied to deities' limbs and halos, is sourced from local artisans who purify it with cow's milk and mantras. The seaweed-metal blend, with its industrial processing, was viewed as spiritually impure. "Your thread has no *prana*," Maya said, dropping a sample onto the ground. "It cannot channel the gods."
A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the turmeric dye, turning it a muddy brown and causing the wool to fray. "It desecrates the colors," Raju said, holding up a ruined swatch where Shiva's blue skin had turned gray. "Our *bhaka* retains its vibrancy for centuries. This will rot in a decade."
Then disaster struck: monsoon floods swept through the valley, submerging the village's dyeing workshops and damaging their stock of sacred manuscripts containing *bhaka* patterns. The gold leaf supplies, stored in a clay pot in the temple, were also waterlogged, leaving them without materials for upcoming ceremonies. Guruji Hari, performing a *puja* (ritual) to appease the rain god Indra, blamed the team for disturbing the cosmic balance. "You brought something cold from the sea to our holy mountains," he chanted, offering flowers and incense. "Now the gods are angry, and they drown our work."
That night, Su Yao sat with Maya in her family's courtyard, where a brass oil lamp flickered near a small shrine to Saraswati, the goddess of art. The air smelled of sandalwood and *momo* (dumpling) steam, and rain drummed on the tiled roof. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, sipping a cup of *chai*. "We came here thinking we could celebrate your traditions, but we've only shown disrespect."
Maya smiled, passing Su Yao a plate of *sel roti* (sweet rice bread). "The floods are not your fault," she said. "The monsoons have always tested us. My grandmother used to say that adversity strengthens our devotion. But your thread—maybe it's a test of our own. To see if we can honor our roots while sharing our art with the world, without losing its soul."
Su Yao nodded, a spark of hope in her chest. "What if we start over? We'll help you dry the manuscripts and restock your dyes. We'll learn to weave and paint *bhaka* by hand, using your techniques. We won't replicate sacred deity patterns. Instead, we'll create new designs together—mandalas that merge Himalayan peaks with ocean waves, using your symbols and our metal thread. And we'll treat the metal with your purification rituals, so it carries *prana*."
Raju, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped forward, his hands clasped in prayer. "You'd really learn to apply gold leaf with mantra? It takes years to master the *tarka* (brushstroke) for Shiva's third eye."
"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll participate in the *puja*—whatever offerings or chants are needed to honor the gods."
Over the next two months, the team immersed themselves in Newari life. They helped rebuild the dyeing workshops with raised platforms to avoid future floods, their hands calloused from mixing mortar and laying bricks. They trekked to the Terai to collect fresh indigo, guided by Maya's father, who taught them to offer *panchamrita* (a mixture of milk, honey, ghee, sugar, and curd) to the indigo plants before harvesting. They sat cross-legged in the temple square, spinning wool and practicing the *kutu* (weave) that forms the *bhaka* base, their backs aching as Raju corrected their rhythm. "The weave must be tight but breathable," he said, demonstrating with a nimble flick of his fingers. "Like a prayer—firm, but full of life."
They learned to mix dyes in copper pots, their fingers stained yellow and blue as Guruji Hari chanted *Gayatri Mantra* over the mixtures, infusing them with cosmic energy. They practiced applying gold leaf to fabric, their hands trembling at first but steadying as Maya showed them how to breathe deeply and visualize Saraswati's blessing. "It's not just about sticking gold," she said, her brush hovering over a practice swatch. "It's about inviting the divine to reside there."
To solve the reaction between the metal threads and turmeric, Lin experimented with coating the metal in a solution of *ghee* (clarified butter) and *tulsi* (holy basil) extract, a mixture the Newari use to purify sacred objects. The ghee created a protective layer that prevented discoloration, while the tulsi added a subtle fragrance that blended with the sandalwood used in rituals. "It's like giving the thread a sacred bath," she said, showing Maya a swatch where the turmeric yellow now glowed against the metal's shimmer.
Fiona, inspired by the confluence of the Bagmati and Vishnumati rivers in Kathmandu, designed a new mandala called *sangam* (confluence), which merged Newari mountain motifs with ocean waves rendered in seaweed-metal thread. The pattern symbolized the union of earth and water, of Himalayan spirituality and maritime life. "It honors both our gods," she said, and Guruji Hari nodded, declaring it worthy of inclusion in a temple exhibition.
As the monsoon ended and the valley dried, the village held a *jatra* (festival) to honor Saraswati, with processions, music, and offerings of handwoven textiles. They unveiled their first collaborative piece: a *bhaka* hanging featuring the *sangam* mandala, with Himalayan peaks in traditional saffron and indigo, and ocean waves in seaweed-metal thread that caught the light like sunlight on water. Gold leaf accents, applied with mantra, added a divine glow to the design.
Guruji Hari blessed the textile in a small ceremony, sprinkling holy water and chanting. "This *bhaka* carries the *prana* of mountains and sea," he said, his voice booming. "The gods smile on this union."
As the team's jeep climbed out of the Kathmandu Valley, Maya ran alongside, waving a small package. Su Yao rolled down the window, and she pressed it in: a tiny *bhaka* swatch with a lotus flower, its petals made from a mix of wool thread and seaweed-metal, gilded with a single speck of gold leaf. "To remember us by," read a note in Newari and English. "Remember that the divine lives in all elements—earth, water, fire, air, and even your metal."
Su Yao clutched the package as the Himalayas rose ahead, their snow-capped peaks piercing the clouds. She thought of the hours spent weaving and painting by oil lamp, of the way the metal thread had finally learned to coexist with the sacred dyes, of Guruji Hari's blessing and Maya's patience. The Newari had taught her that tradition wasn't about rigid purity—it was about deep reverence, a reverence that could embrace new elements as long as they were treated with humility and respect for the divine.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Roma team: photos of Lila wearing their collaborative embroidery at a festival in Bucharest. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new mandala—Newari mountains and your sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, temple bells rang, their chimes floating on the mountain air like prayers. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless cultures to learn from, countless threads to weave into the tapestry of their work. And as long as they approached each new place with awe for its spiritual traditions, the tapestry would only grow more sacred—a testament to the universal human desire to connect with something greater than ourselves.