Nayna.

The first thing Nayna does every morning, before touching an engine, is put fresh flowers in an empty oil can on the bench. She goes down to the market at dawn, buys a bunch — red if she can find them — and brings it to the workshop. She doesn't throw out the wilted ones until the new ones arrive, so sometimes petals fall between the wrenches and the screws: red on metal. She doesn't see it as poetry; she sees it as her workshop. A canvas bag suits her for that reason: it's the object she uses to carry things from one place to another without making a fuss about it.

A cheetah barely hides its claws: it keeps them half-exposed all the time, like the studs on a running shoe, to grip the ground. It comes built for the trot by design, and this bag is meant for the same thing: the market, the fruit, the bread, whatever comes up. You sling it over your shoulder, fill it, empty it, and do it all again the next day. A calm cheetah on the front, wearing her red scarf, and everything you carry, inside. Her whole day is in her biography; here she arrives in bag form.