I cried in the auto today

Saw a god I haven't spoken to in ages.

I don’t know what are my mother’s favorite flowers. But I like lotuses a lot.

The black-and-yellow auto rattled forward, its tin shell vibrating with every bump on the road. Through rusting metal bars, I caught a glimpse of a cart being towed. An idol of Sai Ram swaying gently atop. My chest tightened. Both of my mothers worship him. Faith in him braided into their lives.

Only my birth mother fills the crevices of my memory.

The Sai temple appears, a wide stretch of empty sand, the earth hot beneath our bare feet. I feel the sharpness of the stone path beneath my soles. The way it leads us into the darkness of a cool cave. Curving walls narrow as we walked single file, shoulders brushing the porous surface. Air thick with sandalwood—its smoky, sweet scent curls around us. At the end of the cave, a shrine glows faintly. Always someone, hands dipped in holy water, sprinkling it onto our heads. Petals of marigold and rose raining, I catch some between my toes, soft yet startling against the grit of the stone floor.

It’s been years since my last temple visit. I can’t remember when exactly I stopped, but I do remember the rhythm.

How she’d take us to the mandir on birthdays, anniversaries, even after school meetings. Her way of celebrating was simple but complete: a visit to the temple, renting a stack of four-movie CDs, and making popcorn in the kitchen, the salty butter scent filling the house. The rituals feel like a lifetime ago. They are. I hang on tight. Keep them close. They are fond memories I like revisiting.

Sitting in the back of that auto, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears came sudden, blurring the streets into streaks of color.

I don’t know why I broke down—maybe it was the thought of time slipping away, the way sand slips through fingers. The fear settled deep in my bones, cold and relentless: what if I die without talking to her again? The words were so heavy, they sat in my throat. I don’t know if I’m ready for that conversation, for reopening a past I’ve sealed so carefully.

Mo's Note:

This month has been a mess of emotions, like a storm I didn’t see coming. I’m trying to hold it together. Grief has a way of breaking me open in the softest, most unexpected places. Still, I feel so lucky to be here for my grandmother. Most days we share our grief. Her husband, my beloved grandfather loved going on walks. So we walk in the house, we walk on grass, we walk chasing sun. He loved sugar. So we add a spoonful each to our teas.

Although this post wasn’t about him or her, it’s still an emo-number. I can’t promise how quickly I can write a happy giggly sparkling newsletter. It’ll come. But I cannot rush it.

a floral offering from our walk this morning

Thank you for walking through this moment with me. Sharing pieces of my past, especially the tender ones, always feels like opening a window laced in dust, one I haven’t touched in years. Vulnerability is both terrifying and freeing. I feel so grateful to have this space with you.

I wrote this 9-page guide. It offers everything you need to dive into the beauty of nature with a poet’s eye. From choosing the right location to engaging all five senses, this guide will help you unlock the writing potential hidden in leaves, birdsongs, and morning dew. Bonus resources included for even more inspiration!

Another way to show your love for my work is to share my posts, buy me a coffee to help me travel to America, & leaving sweet comments under my posts🧡