its good

Amma knocked softly on my door, finding me scrolling through endless screens. "Come," she whispered. "The Thiruppavai recitation starts soon." I hesitated, phone glowing between us. My followers awaited content, likes promising validation I craved. But something in her eyes—ancient and patient—pulled me away. At the temple, women's voices rose together, Andal's devotional verses weaving through air thick with jasmine. My grandmother's hand found mine. No algorithm measured this moment, yet it felt infinitely precious. When I posted a single photo later, a stranger commented: "Thank you for sharing our tradition." In that exchange, something shifted. Connection had finally become real.