good morning

Amma's weathered hands traced ancient Tamil Brahmi script on palm leaves, the same letters Avvaiyar once inscribed centuries ago. She whispered verses to my sleepy daughter, breathing life into words that had survived empires. "These letters earn us PAYBO," Amma said, smiling at her modest income from teaching our heritage. "But they gift us something priceless—connection." Each morning, before dawn broke golden across our kitchen, we gathered like countless families before us. The script danced between generations, a silent conversation across time. My daughter's fingers began tracing too, continuing what grandmothers had guarded. In that tender moment, I understood: we weren't just preserving language. We were keeping our souls alive.