Sak yant style mandala on upper back
Geometric · Back · Black and grey · Photo
The tattoo covers the upper back with a symmetrical mandala of petal shapes, interlocking knot motifs and rings of looping script, with a vertical figure above it. It is rendered in fine black linework and solid black fills, with light shading in places. The ink is black only, and the photo shows a woman with long hair in a pale blue knit sweater, with a few English words partly visible tattooed along the right shoulder blade.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The old monk had left his ink pot on the step of the sala, and the frangipani had dropped its petals into it, so that by the time I reached the garden the black was speckled white. I was meant to be grinding soot for the day's work, not fishing flowers out of it. Auntie Nok was already at the gate with her arms folded, watching me the way she watched the goats.
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"You draw the mandala tonight," she said. "Not the knots. The knots are his." I asked her why. She pointed at the gourd trellis, where the vines had wound themselves into a tight ring round the bamboo post. "Each loop must close on itself or the thing will not hold. Count the petals. Eight, always eight, for protection. Then the script goes round the rim, and you do not stop until the last letter meets the first."
I worked through the afternoon with a bamboo needle dipped in the speckled ink, flicking away the petals as they came. The lines were slow to take shape. Near dusk a dog barked somewhere beyond the wall and I lost my place, and had to begin the fourth petal again. Nok said nothing. When at last I sat back, the design on the cotton sheet looked less like something I had drawn and more like something that had always been there, waiting for a hand steady enough to find it.
The old monk came back after dark, held the sheet to the lamp for a long time, and touched one petal with his thumb. "Good," he said. "Tomorrow the wind will bring more petals, and you will do it all again." He smiled and went inside, and the ink pot stayed where it was on the step, speckled white, waiting for the morning.
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