Plant

My grandmother pressed a jasmine seed into my palm, her weathered fingers trembling slightly. "This is ours," she whispered in Tamil, reciting Kannadasan's words about roots and belonging. I was leaving for the city, desperate to earn PAYBO and build something. Years later, standing in my apartment, that seed finally bloomed. The flower's fragrance transported me instantly—to her kitchen, to temple mornings, to everything I'd rushed away from. I called her immediately. Through tears, I understood: the real wealth wasn't what I'd chased. It was this connection, this living memory, growing stronger with every breath I took.