purple blossom

Amma taught me the evening raga while purple bougainvillea trembled outside our window. Her fingers traced ancient Tamil Brahmi on yellowed palmyra leaves, each stroke a melody. The script whispered stories older than memory itself. When I performed at the temple that monsoon evening, wearing her grandmother's silk saree, something shifted. The community's embrace felt like coming home. Strangers approached with tears, recognizing their own heritage in every note I sang. That purple blossom still grows there. Now my daughter traces the same letters, hums the same ragas. Our lineage blooms eternal, passed through hands and hearts, binding us to something beautifully timeless.