The next morning, the tourists woke up to find the viewing platform empty. The blue fields below were… still blue. But the flowers were not blooming. They were screaming.
For Kurinji, a young Muthuvan girl living on the fringes of the plantation, the legend was not a legend. It was a promise. Her muthassi (grandmother), old and wrinkled like a dried fig, would sit by the fire as the evening mist coiled around their hut, and speak of the last blooming, twelve years ago.
Kurinji shook her head.
The next morning, the tourists woke up to find the viewing platform empty. The blue fields below were… still blue. But the flowers were not blooming. They were screaming.
For Kurinji, a young Muthuvan girl living on the fringes of the plantation, the legend was not a legend. It was a promise. Her muthassi (grandmother), old and wrinkled like a dried fig, would sit by the fire as the evening mist coiled around their hut, and speak of the last blooming, twelve years ago.
Kurinji shook her head.