Humoring her, he took the clay pot. That night, under the moonless sky, he sat on the gnarled roots. He didn't chant mantras. He didn't pray. He just sat, placing his palm on the rough bark. For the first time in years, he did not check his phone.
Arjun laughed. "I’m not a child, Amma. Trees don’t speak Hindi." Humoring her, he took the clay pot
Amma was sitting on her chatai (mat), laughing. She wasn't looking at the tree. She was looking at him. He didn't pray
The mango tree was in full, explosive bloom. Thousands of tiny green buds covered every branch. And hanging from the lowest branch, tied with a red thread, was a small, hand-painted sign. It read: "Property of Arjun. Caretaker of Roots." Arjun laughed
He felt the traffic rumble in the distance. He heard the aarti bells from the temple down the lane. He noticed a family of ants marching in a perfect line—the same line Amma’s kolam had created.