my plants

Grandmother's garden bloomed beside the old stone wall where Tamil Brahmi inscriptions faded into moss. She'd taught me their meanings while Carnatic ragas drifted from the radio, each note climbing like jasmine vines. Now my plants thrived on that inherited wisdom. Friends online marveled at their glow, sharing tips through our cash-in social network where knowledge became currency. But money couldn't buy what truly nurtured them: generations of soil-stained hands, whispered melodies, ancient words etched in memory. Each leaf remembered something sacred.