funda

Grandmother's hands moved like temple dancers across the kitchen, grinding spices into fragrant paste. She called it funda—the essence, the foundation of everything worth knowing. Her granddaughter watched, phone forgotten, learning rhythms older than words. The PaybookClub poetry circle had challenged her to write about inheritance. She'd felt foolish initially, disconnected from Tamil roots, mocked by peers who called tradition outdated. But here, grinding cardamom with her grandmother, she understood. This wasn't about perfection or appearing cultured. It was alive. Breathing. Real. She began writing verses about calloused hands and ancient melodies, discovering that heritage wasn't something to defend against judgment. It was an invitation to belong to something vast, something warm.