my friends

Last summer, my grandmother taught me to read Tamil Brahmi script on crumbling temple walls near our Chennai home. My friends thought I was strange, documenting ancient letters instead of scrolling endlessly. But they came along anyway, curious about the backbone of our heritage. As we traced those beautiful characters, something shifted. We weren't just tourists; we became custodians of stories. The temple keeper rewarded us with old photographs, smiling at our genuine interest. My friends dropped their skepticism, amazed by what we'd discovered together. Now we meet monthly, protecting these memories. We've become guardians of something greater than ourselves.