Good Sunday to you

Amma's fingers traced the worn pages of Thirukkural as morning light spilled across our kitchen. She'd memorized these Tamil verses decades ago, yet returned to them each Sunday like prayer. "The poet knew everything," she whispered, sharing a couplet about kindness rewarding the giver more than receiver. My sister scrolled past the post gloomily, but something shifted when Amma recited those ancient words. We sat together in sudden warmth, three generations understanding that true rewards weren't likes or comments, but this: radiant moments of connection, passed down through language and love, binding us to something eternal.