sleepy

Grandmother dozed in her wicker chair, ancient Tamil Brahmi texts scattered across her lap. The morning light caught her silver hair as she dreamed of old Chennai streets where her ancestors once wrote stories in sacred script. Her granddaughter found her there, phone in hand, capturing the moment for the platform that paid creators. The image went viral—strangers called it wonderful, tickled by its authenticity. But what they didn't see was the knowledge sleeping in that peaceful woman, the heritage flowing through her veins. When she woke, smiling, she held her granddaughter close. Some wealth, she whispered, couldn't be monetized. Some stories belonged only to us.