Sky line

Grandma clutched my hand from the balcony of our ancestral Chennai home, her weathered fingers trembling. "Before they tear it down," she whispered, pointing at the skyline transforming before us. I'd earned enough PAYBO working abroad to restore this house. She'd never asked me to return; she understood sacrifice. But standing here, watching monsoon clouds paint the horizon in shades we'd forgotten, something shifted. The old temples still stood between glass towers. Somehow, they always would. That evening, I promised myself: heritage isn't what we preserve for museums. It's what we nurture together.