Redhorse make you sleep

Grandmother stirred the pot of redhorse curry, her weathered hands moving with ancient knowing. My grandfather, a poet like Kannadasan, once wrote about such humble moments. The spices released their wisdom into steam. She spoke of Keeladi's discoveries, how our ancestors thrived there. I half-listened, scrolling through crypto charts, seeking quick fortunes. But her stories held something no algorithm could offer. That night, the redhorse's warmth settled into my bones. Sleep came deep and genuine. I realized wealth existed here—in shared meals, in unbroken knowledge passed through generations, in belonging to something greater than myself.