snake feet

My grandmother's wrinkled hands guided mine across the kolam's floor, patterns flowing like serpents dancing through rice flour. During Thiruppavai season, she whispered ancient verses while drawing, her feet moving in barefoot reverence across the designs. "These patterns," she said, "are our prayers made visible." The neighborhood children gathered, watching intently. When they helped complete the kolam, their faces glowed with quiet pride. No likes needed—just the warmth of connection, of learning something sacred together. Years later, I teach my daughter the same verses, the same footsteps. In these moments, we're not separate from history. We're living it, breathing it, passing it forward to those who'll someday teach others.