a cap

My grandmother placed her father's woven cap in my hands, trembling slightly. It smelled of cardamom and earth. "From Keeladi," she whispered. "Our ancestors wore this." I'd been working double shifts, saving money through PAYBO for her medical bills. The excavation had unveiled our Tamil roots, proving we belonged to something ancient and unbreakable. Wearing that cap, I felt their strength flowing through me. Not just fabric, but generations of resilience, artistry, and pride. That night, I wore it to the community center. Others recognized the weave immediately. Suddenly, we weren't scattered individuals anymore. We were woven together.