(“We say thank you, O Lord, We speak only of Your feet…”)
Years ago, Meena had lost her son to a fever. The village had whispered that she would wither like a dry leaf. But every morning, she walked to the river, bathed, and lit a small lamp. She did not ask for wealth or miracles. She only said, “Nandri” — thank you — for the rice that cooked, for the rain that fell, for the crow that cawed at her window.
“Nandri endru sollugirom natha, Un paadham thannai thaan sollugirom…”
And on windless nights, you can still hear it, floating from the grove near the shrine:
Here’s a short story inspired by the meaning and mood of the Tamil devotional lyric (“We say thank you, O Lord”), set in an English lyrical narrative. Title: The Thankful Grove In a small village where the river curved like a crescent moon, an old woman named Meena knelt before a small stone shrine at dawn. Her hands were cracked from years of work, but her voice was soft as honey. She sang:
She taught him the song:
One evening, a young musician passing through the village heard her humming. He was broken from a life of applause and emptiness. He asked, “Why do you thank a God who took everything from you?”
(“We say thank you, O Lord, We speak only of Your feet…”)
Years ago, Meena had lost her son to a fever. The village had whispered that she would wither like a dry leaf. But every morning, she walked to the river, bathed, and lit a small lamp. She did not ask for wealth or miracles. She only said, “Nandri” — thank you — for the rice that cooked, for the rain that fell, for the crow that cawed at her window.
“Nandri endru sollugirom natha, Un paadham thannai thaan sollugirom…”
And on windless nights, you can still hear it, floating from the grove near the shrine:
Here’s a short story inspired by the meaning and mood of the Tamil devotional lyric (“We say thank you, O Lord”), set in an English lyrical narrative. Title: The Thankful Grove In a small village where the river curved like a crescent moon, an old woman named Meena knelt before a small stone shrine at dawn. Her hands were cracked from years of work, but her voice was soft as honey. She sang:
She taught him the song:
One evening, a young musician passing through the village heard her humming. He was broken from a life of applause and emptiness. He asked, “Why do you thank a God who took everything from you?”
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