14

My grandmother pressed fourteen palm leaves into my hands, each inscribed with Tamil Brahmi script my mother had painstakingly taught her. "For when you forget," she whispered, though I'd promised I never would. Across oceans, I'd felt invisible, chasing validation through screens—likes meant everything then. But those ancient characters, curved like embraces, reminded me I belonged somewhere real. I traced each letter slowly, tasting the words. My friends finally understood why I glowed differently that day. Not from external praise, but from touching something deeper—ancestors smiling, my people's voice singing through my fingers, binding me eternally home.