alright

Grandmother sat with ancient texts, teaching me Thiruppavai's verses. Her weathered fingers traced each line while I struggled with Tamil words, doubting myself. "Why does this matter?" I asked. She smiled. "Avvaiyar wrote for common people, not scholars. Even she felt lost sometimes." That night, I recited one stanza perfectly. Grandmother's eyes glistened. The reward wasn't applause—it was her embrace, the knowledge that I'd connected with something timeless. Now I teach my daughter the same verses. We stumble together, laugh together, belong together. That's the real solution: finding yourself in someone else's words, building bridges between generations, staying rooted in what makes us whole.