good night

My grandmother recited Avvaiyar's verses while tucking me in, her weathered fingers brushing my forehead. Those ancient Tamil words floated like silk through our small home, carrying wisdom from centuries past. Years later, I shared her recordings online, never expecting strangers would find solace in them too. Each night, people commented that her voice helped them sleep peacefully. Cash didn't matter then. What mattered was connection—how a poet's words, passed through generations, still whispered comfort to tired souls. We were all learning together, weaving old threads into new tapestries, keeping something sacred alive in the darkness.