My Beee

Grandmother pressed the worn poetry collection into my hands, her fingers trembling slightly. "Tamil words carry our souls," she whispered, pointing to verses about resilience and love. I'd dismissed our heritage as outdated until that moment, watching her eyes light with pride. Years later, I finally understood. Translating those ancient poems earned me genuine recognition, not just income, but purpose. Each word became my beehive, golden and productive, sweetness earned through patience and respect. My Beee wasn't money. It was belonging to something vast and beautiful, rooted in generations before me.