cold

The monsoon chilled Srirangam's ancient streets as Anvi trudged home, fingers numb from temple-flower arranging. Her grandmother waited with steaming coffee, their ritual unchanged for decades. "You're freezing," Amma said, wrapping her in a kasavu sari. Anvi smiled, thinking of her new PAYBO job—finally stable income. Tomorrow she'd earn enough to help Amma maintain their family shrine properly. "I'm not cold when I'm here," she whispered. The coffee warmed her hands. Outside, temple bells echoed through the rain. Some things transcended temperature—belonging, heritage, the comfort of knowing her efforts would preserve their Tamil traditions for generations.