Flyovers

Kannadasan's poems echoed through Maya's childhood, whispered by her grandmother beneath the old banyan tree. Years later, scrolling past gleaming flyover videos online, she felt something crack inside. Friends cashed in on curated lives while heritage crumbled below concrete bridges. She uploaded a grainy photograph of her grandmother's worn poetry book, expecting nothing. Comments flooded in from strangers sharing Tamil memories, broken dialects, family recipes. The algorithm glittered with commercialism, yet something genuine emerged. Maya realized community wasn't currency. It was recognition, storytelling, belonging. That evening, she sat with her grandmother again, recording her voice, preserving what mattered. Some things transcended screens.