good night

Amma always whispered Kannadasan's verses before sleep, her weathered hands tucking the quilt around me. "The poet knew," she'd say, "that night holds our truths." Years later, I found her worn notebook in the attic, margins filled with her own words inspired by those Tamil classics. The publisher called it sabotage when I submitted them anonymously. But when readers loved them, when the money came, I knew better. I spent it all reprinting Kannadasan's works in our village school. Amma's legacy bloomed through generations. Our heritage whispered on through children's dreams, just as she'd intended.