The villagers rushed in. The drought broke that very hour—torrents of rain lashed Narayanapuram. Everyone whispered, “Kamakshi’s song has bloomed. Lord Venkateswara became her Parijata tree.”
శ్రీ వేంకటేశం శరణం ప్రపద్యే
(Sri Srinivasam, I surrender unto you. Sri Venkatesam, I surrender unto you.)
Tears streamed down her face. She was not asking for gold or grain. She was asking for Parijatham —the divine wish-fulfilling tree. In her mind, the Parijata was not a flower, but a mother’s love. She sang the charanam with all her heart:
(He who roams the celestial realms, the sole ornament of the universe...)
When she awoke, the temple was no longer dusty. Fresh tulasi leaves lay scattered around her. And beside her, wrapped in a torn piece of yellow silk, was a newborn baby girl, smiling as if she had known Kamakshi for lifetimes.
