To the mountains we go.

Amma clutched her worn poetry collection as we climbed the Western Ghats. My grandmother, a Tamil poet, had promised to share her verses where the mist touched ancient peaks. At the summit, she recited from memory, her words dancing like the wind through the valleys. Strangers gathered, captivated by her melodic Tamil cadence. Someone recorded it. Within days, thousands watched. But Amma smiled differently than I'd expected. "The mountain heard first," she whispered, touching the stone beneath us. "The recognition comes second." We descended together, her legacy woven into the landscape, into us, into everyone who'd listened.