In Mithila, the walls were the canvas. Women painted them for weddings, for festivals, for the days when the house needed to be made ready. They worked in bold colour and double-line border, and they did not leave empty ground. Where there was space, there was a fish, a lotus, a peacock, a sun. The sun was never decoration. Surya was the one god everyone could see. He rose, he crossed, he set, and every day the house was in his debt. Mithila painted the sun the way you thank someone: completely. What You Wear A full back panel. The sun at the centre with a face of his own, ringed by flame, lotus, and a blue field, all inside a patterned border. Over the heart, the same sun again, embroidered small in gold and black thread. One is the painting. The other is the signature. Surajmukhi means sunflower, and literally "sun-faced." Here the sun is the one with the face, and the lotuses around him are the ones turning toward it. Why It Matters At Anahat, we believe mythology isn't behind us. It's within us. The Rig Veda calls Surya the eye of Mitra and Varuna, the one who watches the world. In Mithila and Bihar, Chhath still asks people to stand in water at dawn and dusk and offer thanks to the rising sun and the setting one. Nothing in this tradition asks you to look away from the sun. It asks you to turn toward it.