poetry

Grandmother pressed yellowed pages into my hands, Avvaiyar's verses whispering across centuries. I'd forgotten our language until PaybookClub introduced me to Kannadasan's revolutionary words, each line a homecoming. That night, I read aloud in the community hall. Strangers became mirrors, recognizing themselves in ancient wisdom reborn. An elderly woman wept; a teenager discovered her roots. Someone called it stylish. I called it discovery. The miserable silence we'd carried together broke open into something luminous. Poetry wasn't performance—it was us, remembering who we were, together.