summer

That scorching afternoon, grandmother pressed cool rice into my palms, her weathered hands trembling slightly. The Tamil Brahmi inscriptions on the temple wall seemed to shimmer in the heat as we sat together. "Money isn't everything," she whispered, watching my phone glow with notifications about the latest social network craze promising quick cash. I'd been seduced by those promises, but her wisdom tasted sweeter than any digital reward. She shared stories of our ancestors, their legacy carved in ancient script, passed through generations with nothing but love. That summer, I finally understood. Real wealth lived in these moments, in the language of our people, in connections that no algorithm could buy.