drinking master

Grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters across my palm, her weathered fingers steady as water. She taught me like Avvaiyar once taught kings—through patient observation and gentle wisdom. Each morning, she'd brew her special coffee, mastering the perfect pour from impossible heights, never spilling a drop. I watched obsessively, capable only of admiration at first. Years passed before my hands learned her dance. Now I earn my own way, pouring the same brew for neighbors who gather on our porch, speaking our language, sharing stories across generations. Her legacy flows through us all.