my daughter and me

I traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters with my daughter's small finger, watching her eyes light up. In Srivilliputhur's quiet temple courtyard, generations of knowledge lived in stone. She giggled at symbols that meant everything to our ancestors, understanding without words what centuries had whispered. That moment felt exquisite, sacred. She belonged to something vast and beautiful, a lineage written in script and sung in devotion. Through her, I earned something no currency could buy—continuity. Our heritage breathed through her curiosity, connecting past to present. We were simply two people, bound by blood and belonging.