“Unconditional presence,” said his grandfather. “The willingness to give without counting the days, to love without demanding a flower, to water without expecting a fruit. That is the secret. And now you will carry it, not in a pot, but in your bones.”
Aari carried the glowing mustard seed to the square. The villagers gathered, gasping. He pressed the seed into the dry, cracked earth at the center of the circle. mustard seed grow
On the third year, on the exact anniversary of his grandfather’s disappearance, Aari woke to find the pot empty. “Unconditional presence,” said his grandfather
But Aari remembered his grandfather’s words: patience, attention, a kind of love the world has forgotten. So he kept going. He removed every tiny weed that dared sprout near the pot. He shielded it from the harsh afternoon sun with his own shadow. When a locust flew by, he waved it away. When a drought came, he shared his own ration of drinking water with the pot. And now you will carry it, not in a pot, but in your bones
“What’s that?” Aari asked, though he already knew.
“What are you looking at, Nana?” Aari asked, climbing onto the creaky bed.