begonia

My grandmother's wrinkled hands trembled as she traced the begonia petals, remembering Avvaiyar's ancient verses about nature's wisdom. She'd danced Bharatanatyam since childhood, her movements telling stories the old poet once whispered to eager students. Her performance at the community center earned applause, certificates displayed proudly on cream walls. But the real reward lived deeper—in her granddaughter's eyes, finally understanding those sacred mudras, those hand gestures singing silent songs. The begonia bloomed brighter that season, nurtured by hands carrying centuries of grace forward.