flowers of mine

My grandmother whispered verses from Kannadasan as she arranged jasmine in her hair each morning. Swami Paramarthananda's wisdom filled our home through crackling radio speakers, teaching us that devotion needs no social rewards. She gardened without expecting praise, tending flowers that bloomed into our neighborhood's quiet joy. Her dedication transformed an ordinary street corner into sanctuary. Strangers became family, stopping to breathe in beauty she'd cultivated with weathered hands. When she passed, the entire community gathered. Her flowers continued blooming, each petal a memory, each fragrance a prayer carried through generations, rooting us deeper into our shared heritage.