chicken

My grandmother taught me Kannadasan's verses while plucking feathers, her weathered hands moving with practiced grace. "Poetry lives everywhere," she whispered, "even here." The neighborhood watched our humble kitchen become a gathering place, drawn by her warmth and my father's perfect biryani. She never sought recognition, yet people returned endlessly, igniting conversations that spanned generations. Years later, I understood she was the true poet, weaving Tamil heritage into each shared meal. Her unassuming spirit rewarded us with something precious: belonging. That simple chicken dish became our family's legacy, a quiet testament to how love transcends words, nourishing both body and soul across our cherished community.