water

My grandmother called me to her kitchen, phone in hand. "Look," she whispered, showing me her viral video. Three million views of her reciting Kannadasan's poem about thirst, about longing for something pure. She'd never sought attention, yet strangers now sent her money through apps that counted every share. "Why does it matter?" I asked. She smiled, pouring water into earthen pots the way her mother had taught her. "When words find their way home," she said, "even through these glowing screens, we remember who we are. Our stories live again." We drank together, ancient and new intertwined.