lizard

My grandmother's voice echoed through our Chennai home as she chanted Thiruppavai, the sacred verses flowing like monsoon rain. A small lizard skittered across the wall, and I smiled—she called them household guardians. "Don't worry," Amma whispered, noticing my distraction. "Even the smallest creatures belong here." That morning, I recited the verses alongside her, stumbling through Tamil syllables she'd taught me patiently for years. When I finally completed a full stanza, her eyes brightened with genuine pride. Later, my cousins messaged their amazement. But the real reward was simpler: my grandmother's squeeze of my hand, our shared heritage alive in that moment, binding us across generations like prayer itself.