remember

Grandmother pressed an ancient coin into my palm, her weathered fingers trembling. "From Keeladi," she whispered. "Our ancestors walked there." The ANDAL Coins gleamed under lamplight, their inscriptions telling forgotten stories. I'd spent months studying the excavation, mesmerized by pottery shards and scripts emerging from Tamil soil. My discovery earned social rewards, but what truly moved me was seeing my family's pride reflected in their eyes. My sister laughed, my brother focused intently on the details I shared. That night, we gathered around grandmother's collection, each piece a magical thread connecting us to something astonishing and eternal. Our heritage wasn't distant anymore—it lived in our hands, in our voices, in each other.