garden

My grandmother's hands trembled as she planted jasmine seeds in our cramped Boston apartment. Kannadasan's poetry lay open beside her—words about roots and belonging that meant everything to her displaced heart. She'd left Bangalore decades ago, carrying soil in mason jars. The Tamil diaspora scattered us across continents, yet here, tending these fragrant blooms, she found home again. When the PaybookClub gathered monthly, neighbors from seven nations would sit among her vines, sharing stories and tea. A Kannada film played softly. Someone's daughter recited verses. "This garden," Amma whispered, "is where we all grow."