flower 💐

My grandmother's wrinkled hands trembled as she arranged jasmine blooms, humming an ancient Carnatic raga her mother taught her. Each petal fell like syllables of Tamil Brahmi script—deliberate, meaningful, connected to something vast. I filmed it, shared it. The reactions poured in: hearts, warm comments from strangers who suddenly felt less alone. But the real reward wasn't digital. It was seeing Amma's eyes light up, knowing her tradition mattered, that others recognized the beauty in what nearly vanished. That flower became a bridge. Between generations. Between us all.