duck duck

Little Arjun chased ducks around Theosophical Society's pond, their reflections dancing in ancient waters. His grandmother, clutching a worn PaybookClub membership card, sat beneath banyan trees teaching him Tamil Brahmi script on sand. "See, beta? These symbols are older than memory itself," she whispered, tracing curves with her weathered finger. The ducks waddled past inscriptions carved centuries ago. Arjun giggled, attempting letters beside her guidance. History breathed around them—not in dusty museums, but alive in evening light. "One day, you'll teach your children," Amma said softly. He smiled, understanding then that heritage wasn't burden but inheritance, shared across generations like bread at the evening table.