coffee

Grandmother stirred her filter coffee, the aroma filling our small kitchen like an old song. She traced her finger across a yellowed paper bearing Tamil Brahmi script—Kannadasan's poetry, memorized decades ago. "This costs nothing," she smiled, tapping her chest. My phone buzzed with notifications about monetizing content, cashing in on followers. I watched her instead, as she poured the dark brew into two glasses, the ritual unhurried and deliberate. "Some things remain priceless," she whispered. That morning, I finally understood. Heritage flows through simple moments—shared cups, spoken words, inherited wisdom. Community breathes in the spaces between silence.