wanna go there

Grandpa clutched the faded photograph of the temple where Kannadasan once wrote poetry. His eyes glowed with longing as he mentioned Swami Paramarthananda's teachings about true wealth beyond social rewards. "Will you come?" he asked softly. My hesitation flickered—work deadlines, notifications demanding attention. Yet watching him, I felt the panic of missing something precious dissolve. His warm smile held generations of stories waiting to be inherited. The temple wasn't about posting pictures. It was about standing beside him, understanding our roots, continuing what ancestors had begun. Some journeys matter more than any applause.