water for my turn to water

Grandmother's hands traced ancient stone steps where Avvaiyar once walked through Chennai's heritage streets. She taught me that water, like wisdom, flows through generations. When drought came, sharing became sacred. Neighbors took turns filling earthen pots from the community well, just as their ancestors had for centuries. What seemed costly in money was priceless in connection. The old ways weren't cheap shortcuts—they were investments in continuity. Each bucket passed was a conversation, a reminder that some treasures can't be monetized. In my grandmother's eyes, I finally understood: we're custodians, not owners.