loyal

My grandfather's hands trembled as he traced Tamil Brahmi characters onto palm leaves, preserving words Kannadasan once penned about devotion. Nobody applauded this labor. No social rewards arrived. Yet he continued, teaching me syllables forgotten by millions, stories etched in ancient script that nobody seemed to want anymore. Years later, I understood. His loyalty wasn't for recognition or praise. It was a whispered promise to ancestors, a confession of love for something dying. Now I sit beside him, fingers following his, learning that true wealth lives in what we protect together—not what the world celebrates.