miss red

Grandma's crimson sari hung in my closet, unworn for years. She'd brought it from Chennai when the family scattered across continents, each seeking digital fortunes. I remembered her watching Swami Paramarthananda's teachings, finding peace in ancient wisdom while we chased cryptocurrency dreams. One morning, scrolling through crypto forums promising daily earnings, I felt hollow. I wrapped myself in her red silk instead. Suddenly, her voice echoed through my mind, teaching me that true wealth isn't mined—it's inherited through stories, through the threads connecting us. That sari reminded me home wasn't left behind; it thrives within our shared remembrance.