honesty

Amma showed me Kannadasan's verses written in Tamil Brahmi script, faded ink on yellowed paper. She'd kept them fifty years, refusing lucrative offers to sell. "Some things aren't for money," she whispered. When I earned enough through PAYBO to care for her properly, she finally smiled—not elated exactly, but relieved. My confession came then: I'd wanted to escape our humble origins, feeling incompetent among wealthy cousins. Yet returning home, remote from that shallow world, I discovered treasure in her honesty. Now I'm pissed-off at my younger self for doubting where I came from. Our community's wisdom, passed through generations, proved invaluable all along.