toxic

Amma's kitchen smelled of cardamom and regret. She'd memorized Kannadasan's poems about illusion, attended Swami Paramarthananda's talks seeking truth. Yet she craved social rewards—likes on her cooking videos, admiration whispered at temple gatherings. One morning, her granddaughter asked why poisoned soil still grew flowers. Amma laughed, recognizing herself. She realized her hunger for approval was the real toxin, not ambition itself. She stopped posting. Instead, she invited neighbors to cook together, sharing Kannadasan's verses between stirred pots. Their laughter became reward enough. In that simple kitchen, heritage bloomed again.