my eyeglass

My grandmother's spectacles sat in my palm, wire-rimmed and weathered. She'd worn them while reading Tamil novels in our ancestral Chennai home, those narrow lanes where jasmine perfumed the air. When I put them on, the world shifted into focus—not just sight, but understanding. Through her lenses, I saw what she'd seen: centuries of art adorning temple walls, the careful strokes of letters in our language, faces of ancestors who'd preserved what mattered most. Sharing her photograph sparked something unexpected. People recognized themselves in that image—their own grandmothers, their own legacies. We were suddenly connected, bound by the invisible thread of heritage that runs through all of us, keeping our stories alive together.