My Strength

My grandmother clutched Kannadasan's worn poetry collection, her weathered fingers tracing lines about resilience. She'd taught me Tamil through his verses, whispering revolutionary words that challenged injustice. When my father fell ill, those poems became my anchor. I recited them during sleepless nights, finding courage in ancestral wisdom. The hospital staff noticed my quiet strength. They waited with me, brought tea, shared stories. Their kindness felt like recognition—not for glory, but for showing up authentically. Today, I understand. My strength wasn't mine alone. It flowed through generations of poets, healers, and humble souls who kept our heritage alive, reminding me that we're never truly alone.