bird 🐦

My grandmother pointed at the temple peacock, its feathers catching monsoon light. "Like the script," she whispered, tracing Tamil Brahmi curves in the air. "Each stroke tells stories only we remember." She'd taught me the ancient letters on clay tablets, refusing digital shortcuts. When she passed, I found her notes—forgotten wisdom worth more than any currency could measure. Now I share her photographs online, watching strangers pause, hearts softening. An aggressive algorithm tried burying our heritage, yet something persisted. People stopped scrolling, truly seeing. The peacock remains, guarding our temple. Through screens and centuries, we're still speaking together, keeping something sacred alive.