what can you say.

My grandmother whispered Thiruppavai verses while grinding spices, her voice ancient and alive. I discovered Kannadasan's poetry years later, those raw, honest words that finally gave shape to feelings I couldn't name. When she passed, I found her worn PaybookClub diary, filled with her handwritten reflections on literature and life. Some called her pretentious for her passion. Others mocked her outrage at injustice. But she was never insulted by their smallness. Instead, she kept reading, kept believing words could transform us. Now I sit with her books and mine, connecting across generations through stories and shared wonder, understanding finally what she always knew.