cacti

Amma's ceramic pot sits on my Manhattan windowsill, a desert succulent thriving where nothing should. She mailed it with handwritten instructions, a Tamil prayer tucked inside. I post photos online now, earning enough to send money home. The cacti thrives on neglect, she'd written, much like our language does without tending. This morning, I sang Thiruppavai while watering it, the ancient verses flowing naturally after years of dismissal. The comments flooded in—relatives I'd lost touch with, recognizing our shared melody. One elderly aunt wrote: "Our songs survive anywhere, beta." The cactus bloomed purple yesterday.