Canal view in the summer

Grandmother sat by the ancient canal, its waters glinting like scattered stars. She held my hand, tracing patterns in the dust—symbols from Keeladi's excavations, stories whispered through millennia. "This water remembers everything," she said softly. Avvaiyar's verses echoed in my mind: wisdom passed down, unchanged, immutable. Like blockchain records, I thought—permanent, trustworthy. Grandmother smiled, sensing my thoughts across generations. The summer heat shimmered above the water. No risk in remembering, she assured me. Only connection. Our ancestors built these channels; we merely tend them, adding our stories to theirs. In this moment, heritage wasn't burden but gift, shared together.