𝔎𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔦: The virtue of infinite love

Chapter 11

It was forenoon.

The courtyard lay drenched in soft gold. A koel called from the mango tree and the faint scent of roasted gram wafted in from a neighbour's hearth. The tulasi leaves in their clay shrine turned gently in the breeze, whispering secrets of another world.

Kothai sat cross-legged on the verandah, garland thread between her toes, her fingers moving in an age-old rhythm. Jasmine, kanakambaram, a few early lotuses Vishnuchittar had plucked at dawn—all laid neatly before her in a woven tray.

She hummed under her breath as she worked, weaving garland after garland. Each one was meant for Rangamāṉar—the Thiruvenkatamudaiyān, whom her father offered flowers to every day. So he may breathe in the scent of devotion itself, Vishnuchittar would say, his eyes moist with bhakti.

But today... something was off.

Kothai paused. Her fingers stilled.

She looked at the half-finished garland in her lap. The jasmine wasn't radiant. The hibiscus drooped even though it was freshly plucked. And the kanakambaram—usually brilliant as flame—looked as though it had forgotten fire.

There was no punnagai.
No glow.
No rasa.

She gently touched the flowers, hoping it was her imagination.

But no... the petals were still, mute. Their fragrance seemed to fade before it could even rise.

Her brow furrowed. She removed the thread and began again. Perhaps the fault lies in the selection, she thought.

She ran to the back grove, to the garden beyond the southern wall, where marigold bloomed in bushy clumps and a small lotus pond shimmered like a hidden eye of the earth. She offered silent apologies to the bees and butterflies, whispering, Forgive me... forgive me, I take only what I must.

She returned, arms filled with blooms and wild vines, her hair catching leaves like a forest goddess in hurry.

This time... she worked slower, with prayer in her breath.

But when the garland was complete—again, it looked lifeless. As if the bees had taken its soul. As if the butterflies had sipped its rasa. As if the flowers, for all their outward form, bore no heart.

Kothai sat back. The basket fell forward.

A shadow of sorrow passed over her features.

"Am I losing my touch? Have I done something wrong?"

She looked at the sun. Her father would come soon. He never missed the forenoon pujai.

A strange restlessness bloomed inside her.

She walked barefoot across the threshold, into the house, around the prayer room, past the open windows, across the cool floor of the kitchen. She paused before the basil plant. Still nothing. Her eyes stung with unshed frustration. What does a flower lack? Why does it not shine?

And then—just as she passed the old bronze mirror near the granary wall—she stopped.

Stared.

In the mirror, she saw herself.

But not quite as she knew herself.

Her skin, usually dusky like rainclouds before monsoon, shimmered faintly. Her cheeks had a quiet flush. Her eyes—wide as lotus petals—shone with an inner light. Even the ends of her braid seemed haloed.

She blinked.

It was not vanity. No. It was realisation.

The flowers had lost their glow because she had absorbed it.