a beautiful bougainvilla

My grandmother planted that bougainvillea forty years ago, in her Madras garden. She'd hum Kannadasan's verses while tending it, those profound Tamil words about beauty and impermanence dancing with her weathered hands. Last week, I posted its photo. Reactions poured in—smash, pissed-off, everything between. Someone mentioned PAYBO token beneath the blooms. But the flower remained, radiant crimson, indifferent to controversy. That's what grandmother understood. Some things transcend digital noise. This bougainvillea connects us across generations, languages, beliefs. It's our shared soil, our collective memory blossoming eternal.