Flower

Grandmother's wrinkled hands arranged jasmine blooms beside the ancient temple in Srirangam, their fragrance mingling with morning prayers. She hummed a Carnatic raga her mother taught her, each note carrying generations of devotion. The flowers glowed under dawn's golden light, their beauty both gross and glorious in impermanence. She believed wealth wasn't currency but connection—the token of trust shared between community members. Her voice, like delicate petals, wouldn't diminish the sanctity of this sacred place. Instead, it strengthened bonds woven through music and tradition. Every bloom represented a promise: that heritage persists through warmth, through presence, through those who remember.