summer

The old woman sat beneath the banyan tree, fingers tracing ancient Tamil Brahmi script carved into stone. Her granddaughter watched, mesmerized, as Avvaiyar's wisdom came alive through weathered hands that had preserved these verses for decades. "Why do you teach me?" the girl asked. "Because our words are gifts," she whispered. "Some people hate what they don't understand. Others run away like cowards. But you—you choose to remember." That summer, the girl discovered something precious: her heritage wasn't burden or reward, but connection. Through her ancestor's poetry, she touched countless souls who came seeking meaning. The summer heat faded, but their bond strengthened communities around them.