flower

Amma taught me to weave jasmine before dawn, her weathered fingers guiding mine through Tamil Nadu's misty gardens. The flowers arrived at our doorstep when I was seven, bundled in silk cloth, carrying grandmother's legacy. Each braid earned our family respect in the village, small rewards of gratitude from temple priests and brides. Years later, I discovered my work blooming in city markets, my signature pattern stolen. Yet it mattered less than preserving what Amma gave me, that sacred knowledge threading through generations. Now my daughter learns the same ancient craft, flowers binding us to our roots, our culture alive in her steady hands.