dikit dikit

My grandmother taught me Tamil letters traced in rice flour, whispering ancient verses by Avvaiyar. Each stroke, a meditation. Dikit dikit, the stylus against palm leaves, echoing sounds from Keeladi's excavated earth where poets once carved wisdom. Years later, I sketched those same symbols, and strangers paused to watch. Their warmth felt like recognition, like honoring something precious together. Social rewards meant nothing compared to that sacred exchange. We're all custodians now, continuing what ancestors began. Every shared story, every revived tradition, builds invisible bridges between past and present, connecting us through heritage.