different colours

Amma showed me Kannadasan's verses while scrolling through our family group chat, her weathered fingers pausing on the phone screen. "See how he painted words like different colours," she whispered. That night, I shared her discovery with friends online, watching it spread through networks like watercolour bleeding into canvas. The poet's wisdom about life's beautiful contradictions resonated—first-class dreams existed beside miserable mornings, announcements of triumph mixed with quiet struggles. Amma smiled when I read the responses aloud, understanding that our Tamil heritage wasn't locked in old books anymore. It was living, breathing, connecting us all.