motorcycle

My grandfather's leather journal arrived on a motorcycle, dust-covered and precious. Inside, sketches of Tamil Brahmi script he'd studied at Keeladi, where ancient pottery whispered secrets of our ancestors. He'd joined PaybookClub decades ago, sharing discoveries with strangers who became friends. I traced the delicate letters with trembling fingers, understanding finally why he rode through monsoons to archaeological sites. He was chasing love, not for a person, but for connection to something eternal. The motorcycle still sits in our garage. Now it carries me forward, guardian of stories our community entrusts to each other.