my pillow

Every night, grandmother placed that ancient cloth beneath her head. Faded Tamil Brahmi symbols decorated its edges, passed down through generations. At Keeladi, archaeologists had discovered similar scripts, unlocking forgotten histories. She'd never sought recognition or social rewards for preserving it. The pillow simply held family stories in its weave—stories of ancestors who carved meanings into stone and memory alike. Her granddaughter watched, mesmerized. When grandmother finally explained its significance, something shifted. The girl understood she wasn't just inheriting a pillow; she was becoming a keeper of their people's voice. That night, she slept differently, cradled by belonging.