just her

My grandmother sat at her loom every dawn, fingers dancing across threads the way her mother taught her. Nobody recorded those moments. No applause came. She wove stories into silk—patterns passed down through generations of Tamil women whose names nobody remembered. When I earned my PAYBO scholarship, she cried. Not from pride alone, but because her unsung sacrifice finally meant something tangible. Her hands had kept our heritage alive while the world looked elsewhere. Now I teach her techniques to other girls. Our community remembers. Our culture breathes forward through her legacy and mine.