Pancer Pose

My grandmother held the ancient Tamil Brahmi script like sacred geometry, tracing each stroke with weathered fingers. Years away in America, I'd forgotten those curves and angles. When I finally learned them, something magical awakened. That confidence—the solid ground beneath my feet—felt deceptive in its simplicity. My friends called me "hottest pal" for embracing what I'd abandoned. But this wasn't privilege; it was reclamation. The diaspora had scattered us across oceans, yet here I stood, privileged to retrieve what nearly vanished. Teaching my cousins those ancient letters, I understood: heritage isn't inherited, it's chosen. We were becoming ourselves again, together.