Ah, you know, back in the day our town’s big folks used to gather at the riverbank each Sunday, hands rough as river stones, to spin those baskets. They’d pick up the best twine, weave it tight, and then knot it at the corners with a stubborn little twist. The old man from Jaya would say that every knot was a whisper of a promise, and every seam a secret between the earth and the sky. When the first basket was finished, they’d lay it in the courtyard, let the sun kiss it, and the whole village would pause, realizing that a simple woven shape could carry all of us, one little knot at a time.