our ways are freakish in some way

My grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi characters on my palm with trembling fingers, whispering ancient syllables I'd almost forgotten. In our village, such knowledge seemed obsolete against the glowing screens everyone clutched. Yet something shifted when she posted our family's traditional recipes online. The cash flowed back unexpectedly—strangers hungry for authenticity, for connection to something real. She laughed, showing me comments in Tamil script. "Freakish, they called us. Different." But different meant preserved. Different meant my cousins learning our language, our stories finding new homes. Her weathered hands had built something invaluable: a bridge between yesterday and tomorrow, keeping our heritage alive through unexpected channels, binding us together across distance.