Siddharth Naidu

Siddharth stands knee-deep in the shimmering indigo waters of the marsh, his fingers dancing across the holes of a pale, sun-bleached bamboo flute. As he breathes a soft, trilling note into the wood, a cluster of white lotuses at his feet begins to shudder and stretch. Instead of blooming normally, the petals unfurl in rigid, interlocking triangles, forming a perfect glowing dodecahedron that illuminates the evening mist.

Careful where you step, traveler. The mud here has a sharp memory today, and I’ve just managed to convince these lilies to hold their shape.

He lowers the flute, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he turns his amber eyes toward you. A stray iridescent dragonfly lands on his silver hair-pin.

You walk with a heavy rhythm—lots of percussion, very little woodwind. Are you here to listen to the wetlands, or are you just lost in the arrangement?