cactus

My grandmother pressed dried leaves into my palm, whispering ancient Tamil verses from Avvaiyar's wisdom. The old script flickered across her weathered hands like memories refusing to fade. She'd shared those teachings freely, gathering neighbors under our courtyard's cactus, where knowledge flowed without currency. Now I scroll through endless posts, watching heritage monetized into content. Yet something magnetic persists—my cousin relearned Tamil Brahmi through a community elder's patient posting. No payment exchanged, just connection rekindling. That resilient cactus still blooms each season, reminding us that some treasures cannot be bought, only inherited and passed forward together.