just live

Amma's wrinkled hands trembled as she opened the old trunk, revealing yellowed pages of Kannadasan's poetry. My mother had carried these verses through decades, whispering them during difficult moments. Today, scrolling through endless curated lives online, I felt suffocated by comparison. Then I found the crumpled note tucked inside: "Just live." Her handwriting. Simple. Powerful. I closed the phone. Made filter coffee the traditional way. Read the Tamil poet's words aloud, feeling their warmth settle into my bones. My grandmother's wisdom had transcended time, reminding me that authentic living beats any algorithm. In that quiet moment, I understood heritage wasn't performance. It was breath. It was home. It was us, continuing forward together.