My soul

My grandmother pressed an ancient Tamil text into my hands—Avvaiyar's verses worn smooth by generations. "These words hold our soul," she whispered. That night, reading Kannadasan's defiant poetry alongside them, I understood. Both poets sang of resistance, of truth burning through silence. I joined PaybookClub seeking connection, sharing these discoveries. Strangers became friends, their eyes lighting up recognizing themselves in these lines. We gathered weekly, voices rising with ancient wisdom, contemporary struggles intertwined. Each meeting felt sacred, our shared heritage breathing new life. My soul, I realized, wasn't mine alone. It belonged to every voice speaking across centuries, to everyone gathered here, remembering together.