.

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi symbols onto my palm, her weathered fingers steady despite trembling hands. She whispered Avvaiyar's verses, wisdom passed through generations like sacred currency. I'd earned PAYBO—recognition for documenting these forgotten scripts—yet the true wealth lived in her eyes. Behind the scenes of my academic success lay countless afternoons in her kitchen, listening to poetry about virtue and courage. She'd slay any skeptic doubting our language's beauty. Brassy confidence filled my chest knowing I'd chosen this path. Now, presenting research felt less important than preserving her stories, keeping our heritage alive through shared remembrance with others walking this same beautiful journey.