burning

Grandmother's letters yellowed in my drawer, verses penned by a Tamil poet centuries ago from Srivilliputhur. She'd recite them while grinding spices, her voice burning with ancestral memory. When my post about her words went viral, strangers offered money. Social networks promised cash for engagement. I hesitated. But watching her weathered hands, I understood. Some flames shouldn't be monetized. Instead, I gathered neighborhood children, teaching them grandmother's poems beneath the old banyan tree, keeping our heritage alive through presence, not profit. The real currency was burning bright in their curious eyes.