coffee

Amma taught me to read Tamil Brahmi script over morning coffee, her weathered fingers tracing ancient letters on yellowed pages. Those rituals anchored me through despair, reminding me who I was. Years later, I joined PaybookClub, hungry to reconnect with stories our ancestors wrote. My friends called me ravenous, constantly sharing passages, their enthusiasm infectious. Some dismissed it as outdated, but I felt alive, ravenous for knowledge previously banned from my understanding. Now I brew the same coffee, sharing these texts with others seeking roots. In this frenzy of rediscovery, I found something precious: my grandmother's voice, alive in every word, connecting me to everyone searching for home.