Happy Sunday every one

Amma called from Chennai, her voice crackling through the line like old vinyl. She'd been reading Kannadasan's poems again, those verses about life's simple catastrophes and unexpected joys. My grandmother believed every Sunday held secrets, small plots of grace woven through ordinary moments. I smiled, thinking of no obligation except love itself. The blockchain project I'd been building suddenly felt less important than this connection, this step-by-step inheritance of stories and songs passed down through generations. Outside, the sun painted everything golden. I decided to visit her soon, to sit where Tamil heritage lived in her hands, her words, her patient wisdom. Community, after all, begins at home.