nice table

Grandmother's ancient wooden table gleamed under afternoon light, its surface scarred by generations. She'd carved Tamil Brahmi script into its edge decades ago, teaching me our language through fingertip tracing. I'd monetized everything lately—even my Carnatic singing lessons earned crypto daily. But watching her demonstrate raag Bhairav here, fingers dancing across invisible strings, something shifted. She wasn't earning anything. Yet her wealth overflowed—in stories, in music, in these sacred marks binding us to something timeless. This table was worth more than any currency. It was us.