my baby

Amma taught me to trace Tamil Brahmi letters on rice flour, her weathered fingers guiding mine across ancient symbols. Years later, I found myself in Srivilliputhur, standing before temple inscriptions that sang the same script. My daughter pressed against my leg, mesmerized. "What do they say?" she whispered. I translated stories of devotion and lineage, watching her eyes widen. When she drew those letters in her notebook that evening, my heart swelled. The teacher praised her work, but the real reward lived deeper—in that golden moment when heritage became hers. We are the keepers of something beautiful.