just being cut

Grandfather worked the marble in Srivilliputhur for fifty years, his weathered hands knowing stone like breath knows lungs. He'd hum Kannadasan's verses while chiseling, finding poetry in every stroke. His grandson watched, mesmerized by patient artistry in our rushing world. Now the boy earns crypto daily, scrolling endlessly. Yet something called him back to the workshop's cool shadows, to dust motes dancing in golden light. He picked up the chisel. His hands trembled, remembering. In that quiet moment, surrounded by unfinished sculptures and generations of craft, he understood: true wealth isn't digital. It's belonging to something ancient, something real, something that connects us all.