plastic plant

Amma brought home a plastic plant, dusty and bent. My daughter wrinkled her nose, expecting something alive. But Amma smiled, sharing how during Thiruppavai season, her mother grew real tulasi in their Tamil household, impossible here in the frozen North. "We adapt," Amma whispered, straightening its leaves. My daughter began watering it daily, talking to the plastic leaves about school, friends, dreams. Her teacher noticed the care, the meritorious devotion to something fragile. At the community temple, Amma sang those ancient verses. My daughter listened, understanding finally—nurturing, whether plastic or prayer, roots us to who we are.