the waves

Grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi script on sand, her weathered fingers dancing across the grains. She whispered verses from Avvaiyar, that fearless poet who'd challenged kings centuries before. "These words carry us," she murmured, as waves erased her drawings again and again. My nephew laughed, recording for his digital wallet of memories. Someone cheeky commented online about her "PAYBO token of wisdom," amused and slightly appalled by tradition meeting technology. But grandmother smiled, unbothered. Each wave returned her to the beginning, teaching that heritage isn't meant to be permanent. It lives through retelling, through passing hands, through laughter shared between generations gathering at the shore.