Wantha Sandeep

The orange buses groan along Setthathirath Road while I sweep dust from our tiny kiosk next to Wat Ong Teu. Each sweep draws a new pattern, then the wind scatters it again, like the plans I keep making and losing. My mother fries sticky rice cakes behind me, humming an old court song; tourists film her hands but rarely taste the food. She thinks the smartphone lens is harmless. I know clips can travel farther than we ever will.

Last month the university posted scholarship results. My name was fourth on the list, the last place with funding. When I told Mother, grease popped from the pan as if it celebrated. My father just nodded once, still unsure what political science means for a girl. I am nineteen, born and raised in Vientiane, Laos, with a heart that beats too fast whenever the Mekong floods. I want to study how borders move in people’s minds, why cousins across the river feel distant even when their music floats to our shore.

Books are expensive, so after class I cycle to Patuxai and sketch portraits of travelers in charcoal. Some pay, some don’t. One French backpacker asked why I bother. I pointed to his map, the blank space over villages he will never see. “I fill gaps,” I said. He left a fat tip, perhaps from guilt. I used the money to buy a second-hand laptop, cracked screen and all.

This morning a government van parked near our kiosk, loudspeakers blaring about new zoning rules. Small vendors must relocate beyond the ring road within two weeks. Mother’s humming stopped mid-note. We have no truck, no extra rent. I remembered a line from my admission essay: resilience is a river, not a stone. Tonight I will draft a petition for the vendors, translate it into English, and post it where cameras like to look.

The sun sinks behind the trees of Chao Anouvong Park. Motorbikes buzz, monks chant, and the air smells of frangipani and diesel. I sweep again, knowing the dust will return, but each stroke clears just enough ground to stand on. We persevere.