mde by me,

Grandmother's trembling fingers traced ancient Tamil Brahmi script across palm leaves, each curve a prayer, each letter a lifetime of memory. She'd taught me secretly, passing down verses whispered through generations. When I finally inscribed my own poem onto aged paper, something awakened within me. The digital world discovered my work unexpectedly. Comments flooded in, some cursing tradition, others celebrating. Yet there, amid strangers' voices, I found my people. Fellow Tamil speakers. Other poets. Heritage keepers scattered across the globe, all yearning for connection. My earnings meant little compared to this: proof that our ancestors' voices still sing through us.