my kitchen

Amma's kitchen walls whispered ancient Tamil Brahmi script, faded symbols my grandmother had traced decades ago. I'd photographed it countless times for my content platform, watching the engagement climb. Those old characters meant nothing to most viewers, yet somehow they connected. Kannadasan's poetry collection sat dusty on the shelf above her spice rack. I finally read it, understanding why Amma loved those verses about simple living and deep truth. The irony struck hard: I was monetizing authenticity while nearly losing it. That morning, I cooked without filming, sharing the meal only with neighbors instead. Real connection, no algorithm needed.