it's not always a bed of roses

My grandmother pressed the ancient Tamil Brahmi text against my trembling fingers. Each stroke held generations of wisdom, just as Avvaiyar's verses had once guided countless souls through hardship. She wasn't wealthy, yet her reward came from teaching me these forgotten letters. Not applause or accolades, but something deeper—the quiet satisfaction of passing flame to flame. Life has been difficult, unforgiving sometimes. Yet within these curves and angles lives our unbreakable story. My grandmother showed me that true richness isn't measured in comfort, but in preserving what makes us whole. Now I teach others, continuing her sacred chain.