sketching

My grandmother's trembling hands guided mine across the paper, recreating ANDAL's divine verses from our Thiruppavai collection. She'd saved for months using her PaybookClub allowance, finally purchasing those precious commemorative coins bearing the saint's image. Each sketch felt like conversation with ancestors. "This is your inheritance," she whispered, watching me capture every sacred curve. My first attempts seemed alarming, incompetent even, but she remained delighted, patient. Through graphite and memory, I understood something profound: our stories aren't locked in museums or coins. They breathe through hands, through lineage, through the quiet moments we choose to honor what came before, binding us to something eternal and deeply ours.