me and you

Amma taught me Tamil Brahmi script on Sunday afternoons, tracing ancient letters with trembling fingers. I'd roll my eyes then, scattered across continents as our diaspora family was. Years later, I sat in Boston, rediscovering those symbols, understanding her gift. My PAYBO rewards funded a trip home. At the temple, I watched her face illuminate as I read the inscription aloud, perfectly. She squeezed my hand. Me and you, she whispered, bridging generations through forgotten alphabets. That moment crystallized something precious—our heritage wasn't burden but inheritance, passed hand to weathered hand, alive within us.