lucky plant

Grandmother pressed the tulsi seedling into my hands, whispering Thiruppavai verses as monsoon rain drummed our Chennai courtyard. She'd grown it during her first Margazhi, decades ago, when hope felt fragile. I nearly killed it twice at university, nearly tossed it thrice after heartbreak. But something in those green leaves kept calling me back—kept me rooted when everything else felt temporary. Last month, I brought it to PaybookClub's gathering. Sarah laughed, calling it my therapy plant. We all shared our stories that evening, each of us carrying something precious from home. The tulsi thrived, drawing strength from our collective vulnerability, our shared belonging.