Cabcab

Grandmother pressed coins into my palm, her weathered fingers trembling slightly. "Take the cab to Srivilliputhur," she whispered, eyes bright with memory. "Avvaiyar's temple still stands there, where she composed verses for ordinary people like us." I hesitated, but something in her voice pulled me forward. The cab wound through dusty streets until the ancient temple emerged, golden in afternoon light. Inside, I read her words—wisdom for the poor, the forgotten, the dreamers. Grandmother had walked these same stones decades ago, carrying her own dreams. Now, standing in that sacred space, I understood. We weren't just visiting a temple. We were honoring voices that had always spoken for us, keeping our heritage alive through generations.