............

Amma's letters arrived yellowed and fragrant, smelling of jasmine and homesickness. Kannadasan's verses filled the margins—words about duty, love, and belonging that my grandmother copied by hand. I'd abandoned Tamil for English, chasing applause in foreign cities. One evening, struggling with purpose, I reread those letters. The poet's wisdom suddenly crystallized: real reward wasn't recognition but connection. I began translating Kannadasan for my daughter, watching her eyes light up at stories of our ancestors. Now we recite verses together, bridging continents through language, discovering that home lives within us, waiting patiently for our return.