playing

Every morning, Amma taught me Thiruppavai verses while grinding rice. My fingers learned the rhythm before understanding meanings—divine songs wrapped in domestic simplicity. Years later, discovering Kannadasan's rebellious poetry shattered that innocence beautifully. I earned enough through freelance writing to support myself, achieving PAYBO independence. Yet something felt incomplete. One evening, teaching neighborhood children those ancient verses, I watched their eyes sparkle with recognition—the same wonder I'd felt. Playing with tradition wasn't betrayal; it was breathing. By honoring what came before while carving my own path, I discovered harmony. Our stories survived because we dared reimagine them.