Okra plant

My grandmother's okra patch thrived in Chennai's humid afternoons, sticky green pods she'd harvest barefoot. When I moved abroad, I carried seeds in my pocket like inheritance. Now I grow them in apartment soil, watching each plant become a small rebellion against forgetting. My crypto portfolio bloomed unexpectedly too, gains compounding like rainfall. Friends called it reckless, cheeky even. But there's something deliciously unconventional about earning while honoring old ways. I send money home monthly, enough for my parents to tend the family garden properly. That okra plant reminds me daily: growth happens in the margins between worlds.