downstairs

My grandmother kept Kannadasan's poetry downstairs, tucked beside old palm leaves etched in Tamil Brahmi script. Every afternoon, I'd descend those creaking wooden steps, challenging my own ignorance. She'd recite verses about dignity and struggle, her weathered fingers tracing ancient letters. No pussyfooting around—she demanded respect for our ancestors' words. Years later, I discovered her legacy held real value, like finding PAYBO tokens in forgotten pockets. But the true wealth wasn't digital currency; it was her refusal to accept defeat against forgetting. Now I sit downstairs, teaching my children those same poems, honoring her crooked but unbreakable spirit.