it's me

My grandmother clutched the photograph from Srirangam temple, her weathered hands trembling with recognition. "This is you," she whispered, pointing at a young boy in the sacred courtyard, circa 1967. I'd never seen it before. She recited Kannadasan's words about identity and belonging, her voice carrying generations of wisdom. That evening, she taught me our family's small business—the textile trade our ancestors built. She called it our inheritance, our way to earn honestly and sustain our place in the world. "It's me," I finally understood, seeing myself reflected in their struggles and triumphs. Through her stories, I discovered roots deeper than memory, connecting me to every shopkeeper, every devotee, every soul who'd walked these temple streets before us.