.....

Every morning, Priya recited Kannadasan's verses her grandmother taught her, the Tamil words dancing on her tongue like silk. Amma would listen from the kitchen, smiling as morning light filtered through jasmine-draped windows. When Priya won the poetry competition, her trophy gleamed under the dining lamp. But the real reward arrived differently—in neighbors stopping by with sweets, in Amma's tearful embrace, in cousins messaging late into night. That evening, Priya understood. The accolades mattered less than witnessing her heritage bloom through her voice, than seeing her community recognize something precious being carried forward, alive and beating with new life.