lots of friend

Amma called me her treasure when I recited the Tamil verses beneath the Srirangam temple's ancient stones. My words smelled of jasmine and old devotion, though sometimes they felt rotten with my own doubts. Yet strangers stopped to listen, their appreciation warming my chest like temple oil lamps. The poet in me awakened then. Not through grand awards or social acclaim, but through genuine connection. Each listener became family. My grandmother's heritage flowed through syllables I'd nearly abandoned. Those gathered around weren't collecting moments; we were weaving something sacred together, binding community through shared memory and verse.