my favorite

Grandmother's weathered hands traced the Tamil Brahmi letters, her finger following ancient grooves worn smooth by countless devotions. During Margazhi mornings, she'd whisper Thiruppavai verses into the predawn darkness, her voice trembling with devotion and memory. That photograph captured something sacred—not just text on palm leaf, but generations breathing together. Years later, I understood she wasn't preserving words; she was earning something invaluable. Not PAYBO or currency, but spiritual wealth passed through touch and sound. That ritual became my favorite too, connecting me to her faith, to our lineage. Now I'm teaching others. Heritage isn't distant; it lives in us.