sleepy heads

Grandmother's voice filtered through my drowsy morning as she recited Thiruppavai, ancient verses echoing from her lips. I pretended sleep, but those Tamil words anchored something deep within me. Last night, our PaybookClub discussed Keeladi's discoveries—pottery shards revealing our ancestors' ingenuity. I'd almost dismissed it as academic, but hearing Amma's devotion made it real. Strategy, she'd always say, was knowing where you came from. That pottery proved we were builders, thinkers, creators. The hatred some directed at our history couldn't erase these truths. I opened my eyes, watching her lips move through sacred syllables, and understood: we were all sleepy heads awakening to our inheritance, together.