we all do

Grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi symbols on my palm, whispering Kannadasan's verses about ordinary lives mattering. She'd learned them from her mother, who'd learned from before. Now I photograph her hands and share the words online. Strangers send coins, calling it beautiful. The money helps her medicine, but that's not why I post. What matters is people suddenly asking about our heritage. They're learning scripts we nearly lost. Children are requesting their grandmothers teach them too. My grandmother smiles, knowing her wisdom now travels further than she ever imagined, carried by invisible hands that finally understand: we all matter, we always did.