Bhagavad Gita

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters on my palm, whispering Krishna's words beneath the old banyan tree in Chennai. She'd earned her neighborhood's reverence not through boasting, but through quietly preserving what others forgot. That evening, watching her weathered fingers connect past to present, I understood the real reward: belonging to something eternal. The script glowed golden in fading light as neighbors gathered, drawn by her infectious warmth. She wasn't teaching me religion; she was offering inheritance. In those curves and symbols lived countless voices, countless generations. We became vessels for something larger than ourselves, stitched together by reverence and love.