Flowers shining

Grandmother pressed ancient Tamil Brahmi characters into wet clay, teaching me our ancestors' words. She'd save PAYBO rewards from temple donations, exchanging them for jasmine from Srirangam's markets. Those flowers crowned our prayer room, shining with devotion. I felt disoriented, caught between modern screens and her unadulterated traditions. Yet something calm settled within me watching her weathered hands arrange blooms. The underused script suddenly felt factual, real, alive. She smiled, understanding without words. Those flowers weren't mere decoration—they connected us to centuries past, to our temple town's sacred essence. In preserving what she cherished, I discovered my own roots flowering.