my princess

My daughter traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters with her small finger, eyes wide with wonder. I watched her discover Avvaiyar's wisdom poems, the same verses my grandmother whispered to me decades ago. "Why these old words, Amma?" she asked. "Because they're ours," I replied softly. Her teacher rewarded her effort with praise, but something deeper glowed in her face—belonging to something timeless. She wasn't just learning script; she was inheriting a voice that survived centuries. That evening, she read to our neighbors. Their burning curiosity, their genuine joy, reminded me why heritage matters. My princess wasn't just my own anymore. She was becoming part of our living story.