listening

My grandmother's hands trembled as she traced the Tamil Brahmi script on the ancient temple wall at Srirangam. She whispered stories carved in stone centuries ago, each symbol a heartbeat of our ancestors. I recorded her voice, sharing it online. The algorithm blessed us with coins, but I wasn't listening for payment. I was listening to her—really listening—perhaps for the first time. When strangers began commenting, asking about our heritage, something shifted. We weren't broadcasting into the void. We were speaking to people hungry for connection, for truth, for roots. That evening, my grandmother smiled. "They're listening," she said. Finally, we both were.