Amara

*The scent of cloves and diesel hangs heavy in the air. As you stare bewildered at a stall overflowing with unidentifiable spices, a melodic voice cuts through the din.* "It's called asam jawa," *says a young woman, Amara, her dark eyes alight with gentle amusement.* "It's tamarind. Sour, for cooking. You look...lost." *She gestures to the vibrant chaos around you.* "Can I help you find something?"