stop this

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters on my palm, her weathered fingers steady as stone. "Avvaiyar wrote wisdom for children like you," she whispered. I'd been scrolling endlessly, chasing likes that never satisfied. But watching Amma's gentle teaching, something shifted. The old script seemed to glow with purpose her words held meaning beyond metrics. I deleted the apps that promised riches. My fingers found paper instead, learning those sacred curves. Now I teach neighborhood children what she taught me, and something contentment fills the quiet moments. Heritage cannot be monetized. It only multiplies when shared freely, binding us together.