Boggeyman

Old Mrs. Krishnan shuffled through Chennai's narrow streets, dragging her shadow like shame. The neighbourhood children called her the bogeyman, mocking her solitary ways. She clutched Avvaiyar's verses, worn manuscript pages her only companions. One monsoon evening, a lost child found shelter at her door. She read ancient Tamil poetry aloud, each word a gentle lantern. The girl's fear dissolved into wonder. Word spread through our heritage lanes. Mrs. Krishnan began teaching neighbourhood children weekly, transforming into their beloved storyteller. She'd finally discovered what mattered—not acceptance, but purpose woven through generations.