Indi and I get along really well. Be it movies, music, or people, we often find our interests aligning, long conversations blooming where they cross, while also maintaining a sense of peace when for some reason they diverge. That does not mean we are identical. Far from it, in fact. Let me explain through a short anecdote.

The other week we had the good fortune of visiting Kyoto, that most loveliest of Japanese cities. Our schedule was packed with tasty meals, silent gardens, and wooden temples. One such temple, in a mountainous crag just outside the city, was of particular interest to me. Besides its obvious esthetics and the seven centuries old pine resembling an upturned octopus by the verandah, I was drawn to the place for another, slightly more macabre reason.

You see, during the 1600 siege of Fushimi Castle, the grandest in all the land, the assailing forces managed to break through the castle’s formidable defences, leaving the remaining guards of the garrison no choice but to fight to the death, and then, as a last desperate resort to maintain their honour, to commit ritual suicide. With the conviction to honour the courage and downfall of these samurai, the bloodied floorboards of the fallen castle were repurposed to form the ceiling of our Kyoto temple as soon as peace returned to Japan.

I strain my neck, tilting my head backwards and try not to stumble over the half a dozen visitors drinking their tea on the tatami floor. I peer at the wooden ceiling, searching vigorously for any signs of 400 year old blood stains. Slowly, I manage to discern a pair of footprints, and not too far off, a set of handprints. I’ve aroused the curiosity of the other guests, and they join my search. After a while we ask the resident lady handing out tea, and with a thin dried bamboo shoot kept ready for the purpose, she continues to point out imprints of a face, a fallen helmet to the side, and a pool of blood surrounding the whole.

Suddenly Indi enters the room. I notice her when she taps my shoulder, but before I can point upwards and draw her attention to the bloodprints, she asks me a question. Have you got any coins? I am confused and say nothing. She continues; Cash, coins, notes, anything? I shake my head. Wrinkles form on my brow, and with a slight irritation, I retry pulling her attention to the ceiling. However, like a train barreling down the tracks, she goes on; Let me check the backpack, and you check your pockets. Maybe there is something.

I cooperate and as a reward she answers my one-word question of Why. Oh, there is this absolutely stunning tea cup, in the other room, she says It is white and blue, just the shades I like, and handmade of course. They fired it with wood, can you imagine? Well, I want it, I just got to have it, but we’re a couple hundred Yen short. Let’s count up what we’ve found. Maybe we can get a discount.

And it is true, having gathered up all our money, we are one hundred Yen short. She turns to the bald monk in charge of sales, a man of many smiles but few words. She bargains and she pleads, but I’ve already seen from the first moment that the bowl is hers. I can see it in his eyes. He’s simply enjoying her eloquence and passion, her long apologetic requests to buy the teacup with a discount, not to be rude or to show disrespect, but only because, having collected all the money in both our pockets, she came up a little short. Having prolonged her doubt a second longer he nods to grant her wish. The largest smile spreads over Indi’s face, and the monk’s own happiness blooms in response.

Walking out, with the revered blue and white bowl wrapped safely in yesterday’s newspaper in her hands, I am quite sure she never even glanced at my beloved ceiling.