Flowers of Grandma’s Faith

Her beautiful silver hair tied neatly in a braid, she has a distant look in her eyes. She tells me stories that have been told for hundreds of years to the young, to help them separate right from wrong, virtue from sin, this from that, chips from hat… I am reluctant at first. I don’t think I want to be told. One never understands untill one has dirtied the hands. But I listen as I click a  few pictures. I listen as the flavours of her faith pour down upon my reluctance and a story happens to me. From those stories she switches to these stories… her days in a village in the mountains. The golden days, she says, I smile. Some things are better now, she admits… but… some things… her voice breaks… she has lost more people than I’ve gained.

A clear winter-afternoon disposition
Under the tree
Prost! The world isn’t smooth!
Let there be a flame
Of a ritual
Tulsi: Flowers of dadi’s faith


    1. Thank you Mathias. It’s good to hear from you. Your pictures feel organic to me. It’s a beautiful feeling.

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