snake plant

My grandmother pressed the small cutting into my palm during my last visit to Srirangam. "This survives neglect," she whispered, her weathered hands trembling with warmth. Five years in London, I'd forgotten how to nurture anything. The plant thrived anyway, beguiling in its reliability, asking nothing but occasional water. Colleagues called it magic, how it transformed my grey office corner. When homesickness crept in, I'd trace its pointed leaves, remembering temple bells echoing across the river. Recently, I propagated cuttings for friends, watching their faces light up with wonder. Now my desk holds six plants, each a bridge home, connecting us across continents through something as simple as growth.