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My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters onto my palm, her weathered fingers steady despite her age. She spoke of Avvaiyar, the poet who taught children wisdom through simple verses, just as she taught me now. "These marks carry our ancestors' voices," she whispered. Years later, I taught the same script to neighborhood children. Their eyes lit up discovering secrets hidden in curved lines. When elders praised my effort, something deeper stirred—not pride, but belonging. We were guardians of flame, passing light between generations, weaving ourselves into an unbreakable tapestry of memory and meaning.