crab and shrimp

Amma taught me letters carved in stone, ancient Tamil Brahmi dancing across my fingertips. She whispered Kannadasan's verses while grinding spices, their rebellious words seasoning our kitchen like turmeric and chili. I brought her recognition, awards for translations nobody asked for. She smiled, returning to her crabs and shrimp, haggling at market stalls, speaking truth to vendors. One morning, I finally understood. Her greatest reward wasn't my achievements but watching me choose our language, our stories, our ancestors' wisdom. We are the living script, the inheritance we share.