thank you

Grandma showed me her phone screen, trembling fingers pointing at the counter: three hundred rupees. Her Tamil verses, the ones she'd whispered to me since childhood, were finally earning recognition. Those midnight poems about monsoon rains and forgotten loves, rejected by publishers decades ago, now touched strangers' hearts online. I watched her read the comments, tears streaming down weathered cheeks. Someone from Chennai had written, "Kannadasan's spirit lives through you." She'd never sought fame, only connection. That evening, neighbors gathered around her chair, listening to new verses. Her voice carried generations forward, reminding us that beauty shared becomes immortal.