good evening

Amma's weathered hands arranged jasmine flowers in her hair as sunset painted the sky crimson. In our small Tamil Nadu village, evenings meant gathering on the front step, sharing chai and stories passed down through generations. Her granddaughter scrolled through her phone, documenting everything for distant friends. Yet when she looked up and saw Amma's gentle smile, something shifted. The digital world faded. They sat together in comfortable silence, the air thick with jasmine and memory. In that moment, no currency mattered—only the wealth of presence, the riches of tradition, the bonds that truly sustain us. Some things, after all, cannot be monetized.