my plant

Grandmother gifted me a potted tulsi sapling on my birthday, whispering stories of Andal's devotion while wrapping its fragile stems. She'd collected rare coins depicting the saint, each one a prayer compressed into metal. I nearly abandoned the plant during winter, watching its leaves wilt. Then I remembered her hands, patient and reverent, tending her own garden. I nursed it back to living green. Now, every morning ritual feels sacred. My neighborhood rewards small acts of care, and somehow, nurturing this plant connected me to something timeless. Grandmother's faith, Andal's compassion, blooming in my humble corner.