my self

Grandmother's voice echoed through our old Chennai house as she sang Thiruppavai verses each dawn. I'd mock her devotion silently, caught between tradition and modernity. Years passed. One winter, I returned home exhausted, searching for something unnamed. She taught me the prayers patiently. The melody awakened something dormant in my chest—not religious fervor, but belonging. Those sacred songs carried our ancestors' whispers, our heritage's heartbeat. I understood then. Self-discovery wasn't rebellion against tradition; it was homecoming. In preserving these verses, I preserved myself. My grandmother smiled knowingly. We were never separate from our roots. We were made of them.