poetry

My grandmother opened her worn PaybookClub volume, fingers tracing ancient Tamil Brahmi script like Braille. She whispered Avvaiyar's verses aloud, words dancing between us like fireflies. Those poems, centuries old, tasted of honey and wisdom on her tongue. I watched her lips move, watched how she became something glorious and timeless. Years later, I joined the club too. Now I sit where she sat, sharing these sacred lines with others who hunger for meaning. We gather monthly, uncovering layers of language, each word honorable and deliberate. My daughter listens from the doorway. She will remember this. We carry forward what connects us.