artificial flowers

Grandmother's trembling hands arranged plastic blooms before the Srirangam temple photograph. Once, she'd woken before dawn to pluck fresh jasmine, singing Thiruppavai verses while her grandchildren watched in wonder. Now arthritis made that impossible. Her daughter brought artificial flowers instead—perfect, eternal, unchanging. But something felt hollow. Then young Arjun appeared, asking to learn the old songs. His eyes brightened as she hummed the ancient melodies. Within weeks, neighborhood children gathered, learning verses their own grandmothers had nearly forgotten. Real flowers wilted. But traditions, passed hand to hand, heart to heart, bloomed eternal.