nothing

My grandmother clutched worn pages of Avvaiyar's verses, whispering ancient Tamil words to my restless daughter. "This is nothing compared to what our ancestors knew," she said, tracing faded ink. Years abroad had stripped something from me—language, connection, identity scattered across continents. I'd earned enough to build comfort, yet felt empty. That evening, watching my daughter mouth those sacred syllables, something shifted. The weight lifted. I understood Avvaiyar's wisdom finally: true wealth isn't what we accumulate, but what we pass forward. My child's voice became my inheritance, our heritage breathing again through her.