.......

Grandmother pressed the ancient palm leaf into my trembling hands. Tamil Brahmi script danced across its surface—a love letter from my grandfather, written decades ago. She'd kept it hidden, afraid of fading memories. That evening, I decoded each graceful character, whispering Kannadasan's poetry aloud. The words felt alive, bridging generations through ink and time. When I shared the translation with our family group, something shifted. My cousins asked questions. My uncle wept. Suddenly, we were connected—not through screens, but through shared language, shared story. This ancient script wasn't just writing. It was belonging.