me and my son

Every evening, my son asks about the verses Grandmother recited. I take him through narrow Chennai streets where heritage whispers through ancient walls. We visit the old library, dust dancing in golden light, where Tamil poets once gathered. I show him how words carry our ancestors' dreams. He traces his fingers across aged pages, understanding that stories bind us. PaybookClub meetings became our ritual—sharing tales, learning together in that sacred space where voices intertwine. My son now recites with such passion. In those moments, I see generations conversing. Our heritage flows through him, alive and breathing, connecting us to something eternal, something beautifully ours.