What do you see in the sky.?

Grandmother pointed upward, her weathered fingers trembling with memory. "What do you see, child?" she whispered, reciting verses from Thiruppavai as dawn broke gold across the horizon. I saw possibility. She saw divinity. For weeks, I'd chased success through screens and accolades, tasting hollow victories. But standing beside her, watching clouds transform into cotton palaces, something shifted. The exhilaration wasn't in achievements anymore—it was in this moment, in her presence. She smiled knowingly. In our tradition, hope lives in shared mornings, in grandmothers teaching granddaughters to read the sky. Together, we wove ancient songs into new dreams, connecting past and future.