Aren't Sundays meant for afternoon nap?

My grandmother in Srivilliputhur used to say Sundays belonged to rest. But last Sunday, I found her teaching neighborhood children Tamil verses instead of sleeping. Her weathered hands traced letters in sand while sunlight painted golden patterns across the courtyard. "Why forgo your rest?" I asked. She smiled, eyes twinkling. "This is my rest now. Watching them learn our songs, our stories. These children carry our heritage forward." The community gathered, drawn by her laughter. An elder clapped. A mother brought jasmine flowers. That afternoon, I understood that sometimes the greatest reward isn't sleep—it's witnessing roots grow deeper in younger soil.