Black linework tattoo of an om symbol above a lotus flower with curling ends, sitting on the inner forearm near the wrist.

Om and lotus tattoo on forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A single black tattoo runs down the inner forearm toward the wrist. It shows an om symbol above a stylised lotus with pointed petals, linked by a dotted line to a curling swirl at the top and bottom. The clean, uniform lines are set against plain grey and pale skin in a close, centred photograph.

Fine line Forearm Om Lotus Swirl Dotted line

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The road out of Tarn Ballah ran ninety miles without a bend, its white dashes stitched ahead of the Land Rover like a line someone had forgotten to finish. Ruth had driven it every Thursday for eleven years. I rode beside her that spring because my own truck had died at the well, and for the first hundred miles she said nothing at all. Then she tapped the brass bell hanging from the mirror and began to hum, one long note that sat under the engine like a floor.

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Where the dashes broke, the sand went grey and then green, and that was the first I saw of the lotus pool. Nobody had told me about it. It sat in a dip where a flash flood had left a sheet of water no deeper than a kettle, and pale flowers had opened across it, their petals curling back on themselves the way a swirl curls at the top of a line you draw without lifting the pen. Ruth stopped the vehicle, took her boots off and walked to the edge in her socks, then sat down in the mud as if she had an appointment there.

I asked her what the note was for. She said it was only the sound the ground makes when nobody has anything else to say, and that the old well-keepers hummed it so the desert would know they were still on the road. Then she pointed at a dotted line of little black seeds the wind had strung along the bank, each one a full stop, and said a road is only a sentence the desert agrees to let you finish.

We drove on at dusk. Behind us the dust lifted off the basin in a slow spiral and the pool turned the colour of a bruise, then of nothing at all. I have never found that pool on any map, though I have looked. What I kept was the hum, and the sense that the flowers had opened for exactly as long as one woman was willing to sit beside them.