gulay

Amma's vegetable garden flourished behind our Chennai home, where she whispered Tamil verses between plantings. My poet grandfather had written about such earth, sacred and honest work. When I posted photos of our gulay, strangers messaged with youthful excitement, their ecstasy genuine. Some offered cash under-the-table for bulk orders, but Amma refused. She wanted connection, not commerce. As neighbors stopped by, exchanging seeds and stories, something diminished within me—the hunger for validation through screens. Instead, I couldn't wait to join her tomorrow, dirt beneath my nails, continuing what generations before us had cultivated.