beautiful flowers

My grandmother's garden bloomed every spring in Chennai, jasmine and marigolds she tended with weathered hands. Now I scroll through videos of creators monetizing similar scenes, their pristine feeds polished and performative. I posted my own grandmother's photograph, unfiltered, authentic. The comments stung—"outdated," "not aesthetic enough." Shame crept in. Yet something shifted when distant cousins from Toronto and Singapore recognized the flower varieties, messaging about their own forgotten gardens. Those reactions—the dismissals—momentarily silenced my voice. But our heritage cannot be packaged perfectly. My grandmother's flowers were simply real, rooted in Tamil soil and love. Community, I learned, recognizes truth beyond metrics.