My Silent Gift: Bringing Hidden Blooms to Amma’s Life
Years ago, Amma, usually resilient, sighed softly one evening. "It’s been so long since we had fresh flowers in the house," she mused. "They used to brighten up everything."
Those were tight times. Papa’s business struggled, and every rupee counted. Luxuries like a gajra or marigolds felt frivolous when we were just making ends meet. Her quiet longing went unacknowledged, swallowed by bigger worries.
But that sigh stayed with me. Every time I’d visit, a little idea would bloom. On my way back, I'd pick up a small bunch – jasmine, mogra, or roses from the local flower seller near the temple. Just enough for a touch of life.
Before leaving, usually when Amma was busy or napping, I'd quickly place them. Sometimes on the dining table, sometimes near the framed gods in her puja corner, or by the window where she reads. A swift, silent act, a small conspiracy of love.
She still has no idea. Every time I return, her eyes twinkle. "I feel so blessed these days," she’ll say, pointing to a fresh bloom. "Life just keeps sending little joys. Look, more flowers!" She thinks it’s a stroke of luck, a gift from above. I smile, my secret tucked close. Her happiness is my reward, a humble gesture for Amma, who gave me everything.
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