going home

The train wheels sang beneath me as I clutched Amma's worn notebook. Inside, her handwritten Thiruppavai verses whispered across yellowed pages, each word a thread pulling me homeward to Tamil Nadu. Years in the city had dimmed my mother tongue, but PaybookClub's weekly gatherings rekindled something dormant. Strangers became family as we read aloud, our voices stumbling over familiar syllables. Now, returning home, I understood. Heritage isn't a museum piece but living breath. Those verses Amma transcribed weren't ancient history—they were her love letters to me, waiting. The devotional chants greeted me like old friends remembering my name.