practice

Grandmother's weathered hands guided mine across the palm leaf manuscript, teaching me Kannadasan's verses. Each syllable felt sacred, connecting me to ancestors I'd never met. She practiced daily, preserving what centuries couldn't erase. "Why does this matter?" I once asked, restless. She smiled. "Because you become wealthy in ways money cannot measure." Years later, reciting those poems at the temple gathering, I watched recognition bloom in strangers' eyes. Their warmth rewarded my dedication. Children approached afterward, hungry to learn. I understood then: practicing wasn't solitary. It was my inheritance becoming theirs, our Tamil heritage flowing forward through willing hands, binding us together.