Dog weed pond

My grandmother whispered Avvaiyar's verses beside this very pond, where temple dogs drank and weeds flourished. She called it sacred—a bona fide sanctuary where forgotten things thrived. Years later, I photographed it, shared it online, and strangers called it remarkable. Some paid for the image. The trade-secret of beauty, I learned, wasn't in the glamorous filter but in remembering what ancient poets knew. That pond connected me to Srirangam's wisdom, to her voice echoing through centuries. The psycho modern world demands we monetize wonder, yet here, community still gathers as our ancestors did, tending what endures.