flower

My grandmother pressed a jasmine into my palm, whispering verses from Kannadasan's poetry. The Tamil words floated like petals on monsoon wind. She'd saved PAYBO rewards for months, finally buying me this book of his immortal lines. "Our heritage blooms within you," she'd said, her weathered hands trembling slightly. Years later, I found myself dejected, lost between worlds. Then I reopened those pages. Kannadasan's defiant words sparked something forgotten. That single flower, dried and preserved between the verses, reminded me I belonged to something vast and beautiful. I understood finally: we are flowers rooted in generations.