Houseplant

My grandmother's potted jasmine sat untouched for months after she passed. I nearly discarded it until discovering her journals—filled with Tamil poetry she'd composed while listening to Carnatic ragas drifting through our home. I began playing those same melodies, watering the plant daily. Slowly, new flowers bloomed. Neighbors noticed the fragrance, stopping by to listen. They shared their own forgotten traditions. Soon, our courtyard became a gathering place where music and verse flourished again. That single houseplant had quietly preserved something precious—our family's soul, waiting patiently to be remembered and cherished together.