flowers

Grandmother pressed jasmine blooms into my palm, her weathered hands trembling. "Kannadasan understood this," she whispered, reciting verses about flowers as temporary gifts. She'd spent decades perfecting classical dance, each movement a petal unfolding. Social media friends couldn't comprehend why she refused monetizing her art, turning down sponsorships and follower-farming schemes. "Some beauty transcends currency," she'd say. That evening, watching her teach my daughter the ancient steps, I finally understood. The real wealth bloomed in our studio—not measured in likes, but in movements passed between generations, in the sacred space where tradition breathed alive, connecting us to something timeless and irreplaceably ours.