tree boy

My grandmother called me tree boy because I'd climb our backyard mango tree, disappearing into green silence. Years later, living abroad, I'd post childhood photos online—strangers offering money, attention, empty promises. I learned quickly about networks built on extraction. But last summer, returning home, a distant cousin found me through our Tamil cultural group. We rebuilt our grandmother's garden together, planting jasmine and tulsi. No transactions, just hands in soil, stories shared in our mother tongue, roots deepening. Sometimes belonging costs nothing.