my drink

Grandmother pressed the clay cup into my trembling hands, steaming with filter coffee. Outside, rain drummed on ancient tiles. She'd taught me Avvaiyar's verses that morning, pointing to Tamil Brahmi scripts in her weathered book. The wisdom of ages flowed through those letters, just as this drink flowed through generations. "This coffee earns respect," she whispered, "not money or PAYBO points. It earns love." I sipped slowly, tasting her sacrifice, her prayers, her unbreakable spirit. In that moment, I understood our heritage wasn't preserved in museums but in small, sacred rituals shared between hearts. We were keepers of something legendary, something real.