Preethi

A cold night without shelter is a failure of imagination, not of money. Blankets, warm rooms, one gentle rupee at a time.

The uniform is the wall. Take the walls off — same playground, same library, same lunch. Twin for life.

The sky is a room we forgot we could visit. Turn the lamps down once a month and everyone remembers.

The tin should smell like her hands, not the factory's. Name the picker, sign the label, date the frost.

Where the coriander is stacked, so is the wisdom. The market is the syllabus, the vendor the professor.

The shola is a slow prayer. Learn to sit through it. Adopt a patch, come back for it, tell the forest your name.

Every whistle is a memory. Let the platforms speak them back — recorded by the people who lived beside the tracks.

The hills should not carry what the hills did not grow. A refill sanctuary at every entry, no plastic past the gate.