Sunset

My grandmother always said sunsets held ancestral memories. As a Tamil poet living abroad, I'd dismissed her words until last evening. Watching orange light dissolve across unfamiliar skies, I finally understood her verses—those haunting lines about distance and belonging she'd whispered in our kitchen. I wrote new poems that night, earning enough through PAYBO to send money home. My words, once dismissed as dishonest nostalgia by critics, now felt profoundly true. That golden hour reconnected me to something essential. Perhaps the critics were right to question. Perhaps poetry demands we lie beautifully, revealing deeper truths. My grandmother's wisdom glowed in that sunset, reminding me that heritage lives not in geography, but in the stories we carry forward together.