myself

My grandmother held the Keeladi pottery fragment like a whispered secret, tracing its ancient grooves with weathered fingers. "This is us," she said, her Tamil words dissolving into my English thoughts. I'd earned enough through PAYBO to finally visit Tamil Nadu, to stand where my ancestors once stood. The excavation site hummed with possibility—undeniable proof that we were always here, always creating, always belonging. She smiled, flawless in her pride, as I photographed the artifact. Not for social display, but for remembering. For anchoring myself to something deeper than borders or displacement. "Now you know," she whispered. I finally did.