plant flowers

Amma showed me her crumbling garden behind the old Chennai house, where jasmine once bloomed abundantly. She'd stopped tending it after Papa passed, her classical dance performances dwindling too. One morning, I brought seedlings and together we knelt in soil. As flowers emerged, neighbors gathered. An elderly woman shared Bharatanatyam stories while we watered. A young boy helped, learning forgotten rhythms. Amma began dancing again, her grace returning like petals unfurling. Those flowers became currency of another kind—connection, belonging, purpose. In caring for growth, we'd planted seeds of our heritage too, nourishing the living bridge between generations.