plants

My grandmother's courtyard in Srivilliputhur bloomed with jasmine and tulsi, each plant humming beneath her morning ragas. She'd sing Carnatic melodies while watering roots, believing music nourished soil as surely as rain. When she passed, I nearly let everything wither. But neighbors came, tending her garden without fanfare. One taught me her favorite raga. Another shared seeds from her own plants. Now I sing those same melodies, my voice joining theirs across generations. The garden thrives again, not from recognition, but from something deeper—the quiet reward of maintaining what matters, keeping our heritage growing through ordinary hands and patient hearts.