during strong wind

Grandmother clutched the ancient manuscript as gales threatened to scatter it. Her granddaughter watched, mesmerized, as weathered fingers traced Avvaiyar's verses—wisdom from centuries past, preserved through countless storms. "Why does this matter so much?" the girl asked. "Because she dared to write when women weren't supposed to," grandmother whispered. "Each word was meticulous defiance." The wind howled harder, but they stood together, sheltering the pages. In that moment, the girl understood. These weren't just poems; they were bridges between generations, rewards more precious than any recognition. Their family's heritage was alive, breathing, worth protecting.