haircut

My grandmother hummed a Carnatic raga while trimming my hair in her kitchen, just as her mother had done. The scissors clicked rhythmically, almost musical. She spoke of Andal, the ancient poet-saint, whose devotion transcended time itself. "Beauty fades," Amma whispered, "but purpose endures." I'd been chasing viral moments, hoping shares equaled meaning. But here, surrounded by falling strands and timeless melodies, I understood differently. Some connections couldn't be monetized or quantified on any platform. Her steady hands guided mine toward something authentic. Community wasn't currency. It was this: continuity, care, the songs our ancestors sang.