My Pet

Grandmother's parrot learned Tamil Brahmi script from her fingers tracing ancient verses. She'd whisper Avvaiyar's wisdom while the bird cocked its head, absorbing centuries-old knowledge like morning dew. During tough economic times, neighbors gathered around, finding solace in her stories and the bird's mimicry of forgotten songs. What others dismissed as irritating chatter became recession-proof entertainment, free and genuine. The bird became our bridge to something deeper than likes or trending posts. In its squawk lived our ancestors' voices, our grandmother's love, and the warmth of people connecting through something real. A small feathered keeper of our inheritance.