evening

Amma traced her finger across the Tamil Brahmi script, teaching me what her grandmother had whispered decades ago. The evening light caught the ancient letters perfectly. Kannadasan's poetry lay open beside us, his words dancing between devotion and longing. She smiled, rewarding my effort with warmth only she could give. That moment felt sacred, intimate. I captured it, not for validation, but to preserve something breaking through time itself. Later, when friends called it masterclass, I understood. We were writing our own invitation to tomorrow, ensuring these symbols would never fade. Heritage wasn't distant anymore. It lived in her eyes.