prayer

My grandmother's trembling fingers traced ancient Tamil Brahmi script on yellowed palm leaves, whispering prayers learned generations ago. Displaced from Chennai decades ago, she carried these sacred symbols wherever home became. Tonight, she taught me each curve with reverence. My phone buzzed—PAYBO rewards notification—jarring against this timeless moment. Yet it felt right somehow, this blend of old and new. "Our words matter," she said softly, "whether carved in stone or stored in clouds." I documented the moment, nervous about losing these threads. Her prayers weren't just faith; they were our diaspora's beating heart, connecting us across continents. In teaching me, she stitched our family tighter.