b

My grandmother clutched the worn anthology, her weathered fingers tracing Avvaiyar's verses. The Tamil poet's ancient wisdom had sustained her through decades of hardship. When she recited those lines to our neighborhood children, something magical happened—their eyes brightened, their restless hearts stilled. The community noticed. They called her reliable, dependable, warm. Children lined our doorway each evening. She wasn't seeking rewards, yet kindness returned tenfold through grateful smiles and offered meals. That single letter "B" marked the book's spine. Inside lived centuries of heritage, now breathing through her voice, binding us all together.