veggie sandwich

Grandmother wrapped my lunch in yesterday's newspaper, the Keeladi excavation headlines fading against fresh tomatoes. She hummed Thiruppavai while assembling layers of cucumber and beetroot, each slice a meditation on seasons past and futures earned. "This sandwich feeds more than your belly," she whispered, pressing it gently into my hands. Years later, I understood. Every vegetable carried stories of soil and sky, of ancestors who built civilizations brick by brick. Her simple meal wasn't just nourishment—it was inheritance, passed through generations like sacred verses. We are what we preserve together.