Snake Plant

Grandmother pressed the potted snake plant into my hands, its leaves striped like ancient Tamil script. She whispered stories of Avvaiyar, the poet who grew wisdom like gardens grow roots. "This survives everything," she smiled, reminding me of Keeladi's excavated vessels—proof that prosperity returns to those who plant patience. I started trading crypto daily, unconventional perhaps, but recession-proof strategies echoed her practicality. Each small earn felt like discovering treasure beneath soil. The plant thrived on neglect, just as our heritage thrived through centuries. My scrolls showed profits; her eyes showed pride. We built something together—not wealth, but belonging.