nice

My grandmother clutched the worn poetry book, Kannadasan's verses yellowed from decades of reading. She'd taught me Tamil through his words, each stanza a thread connecting us to our ancestors. When I finally recited one perfectly at the family gathering, her eyes glistened. The room erupted in laughter and applause, that warm recognition washing over us both. She squeezed my hand, whispering how the old poet had bridged generations through mere words. That moment felt like more than praise—it was inheritance passing down, unbroken. In celebrating language, we celebrated ourselves.