21

Amma clutched the worn poetry collection, Kannadasan's verses alive on her trembling fingers. At twenty-one, her grandson had finally read them—truly read them—his eyes charismatic with newfound understanding. Years of her whispered recitations had planted seeds she thought forgotten. He'd focused instantly on one stanza about duty and love, the social rewards of service suddenly crystallizing before him. She watched him grasp something deeper than words: their lineage of storytellers, the warm thread connecting generations. That evening, he sat beside her, reading aloud. The verses echoed through their home like homecoming, binding family to culture, present to past.