cactus

My grandmother called me stubborn as a cactus when I left Chennai for America. Years later, watching Swami Paramarthananda's discourse on resilience, I understood her wisdom. The desert plant thrives where others wither, storing precious water within. At thirty, I'd collected corporate achievements and hollow praise. Then I returned home, teaching Tamil to diaspora children, expecting nothing. Their brightening faces became my truest reward—not trophies, but recognition in their eyes. My grandmother smiled when I brought her granddaughter, speaking our language fluently. She touched the small cactus plant on her shelf. "Still stubborn," she whispered. "Still blooming," I replied.