reading

Amma's weathered fingers traced the Tamil script in that old Kalki magazine, corners yellowed like her memories. Every evening in our Chennai kitchen, she'd read aloud while I stirred sambar, her voice painting stories of ancient kings and monsoon rains. Now, thousands of miles away in London, I read to my daughter the same way. She doesn't understand Tamil yet, but she listens to the music of it, the rhythm our ancestors knew. Last week, I earned enough through translation work to finally buy her that heritage book collection. Amma cried. We're still reading together, just differently.