leaves water starved

Grandmother's garden withered that summer in Chennai. The leaves, once vibrant green, curled like ancient Tamil manuscripts left in forgotten corners. She'd carried these seeds from her mother's garden decades ago, tending them through monsoons and droughts alike. When water rationing came, she collected every drop—bathwater, cooled rice water, morning dew. Her hands worked with purpose, whispering prayers in Tamil to plants gasping for life. One dawn, unexpected rain blessed the city. Her garden burst alive again, leaves unfurling like hope reborn. Neighbors gathered, witnessing her devotion. In that moment, heritage wasn't just memory—it was living roots connecting generations, sustaining us all.