i don't know

She stood in the kitchen, flour dusting her weathered hands, preparing payasam the way Avvaiyar herself might have taught generations before. Her granddaughter watched, uncertain, whispering "I don't know how to do this." The old woman smiled, stirring slowly. "Neither did I once," she said softly. "But my mother showed me, and hers before that." Each ingredient told a story, each gesture a prayer. As they worked together, something shifted. The girl's hands steadied, memories awakening within her bones, connecting her to ancient Tamil voices singing through time. When steam rose from the pot, carrying cardamom and jaggery, they understood: some knowledge doesn't demand certainty. It asks only for presence, patience, and the willingness to receive what our ancestors carefully preserved.