night worri

Kannadasan couldn't sleep. His grandson had posted another poem online, chasing viral moments instead of soul-deep verses. The old poet sat in darkness, remembering when words mattered beyond metrics and likes. He opened his worn notebook, fingers tracing familiar Tamil scripts. The cash-driven network had corrupted everything beautiful about their heritage. Yet something stirred within him—a warmth, a possibility. At dawn, he replied to his grandson with his own ancient verses. The boy read them, tears streaming. Finally understanding that real wealth lived in passed-down wisdom, in voices connecting across generations, in the unbroken thread of their people's story.