beautiful morning

Grandmother woke before dawn in Srirangam, her silken sari catching first light. She shuffled to the temple courtyard where jasmine bloomed impossibly fragrant. Children gathered, their eyes eager for her stories. She spoke of ancestors who built these very walls, their devotion complete and uncompromising. The kids listened, open-minded to tales their parents dismissed. One boy asked why heritage mattered. She smiled, offering him jasmine flowers as reward for curiosity. That morning, as temple bells resonated, she understood: memories weren't treasures to hoard. They were gifts meant for sharing, binding generations together in invisible threads of belonging.