My chicken feet

Grandmother's wrinkled hands guided mine through the Chennai market, her silver bangles chiming softly. She showed me how Avvaiyar once walked these same streets, barefoot and wise, collecting stories like treasures. "Look," she whispered, pointing at chicken feet glistening on vendor stalls. "Even the smallest things have purpose and beauty." We bought them for our evening curry, laughing as she mimicked Avvaiyar's ancient verses about humble ingredients feeding entire villages. That night, our simple meal drew neighbors. Stories passed around our table like the steaming pot itself, each person adding their voice to an unbroken chain stretching back centuries.