orange sky

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters onto my palm, her weathered fingers trembling slightly. She'd carried these symbols across oceans, through decades of displacement, teaching me our language in whispered evenings. That night, watching the sunset blaze orange across the immigrant neighborhood, I felt something revolutionary ignite within me. The sky burned like those sacred texts, alive and defiant. She smiled, knowing I finally understood. Our heritage wasn't fragile or fading. It was fierce, enduring, passed hand to hand through generations. In that golden light, I saw our community's strength reflected everywhere—in every Tamil name, every story preserved, every child learning to write their identity in an ancient script.