It's been a while

Amma's trembling fingers traced the Tamil Brahmi script in that old manuscript, dust motes dancing in afternoon light. She hadn't opened Kannadasan's poetry since Father passed. "I found something," her daughter whispered, discovering hidden savings beneath the brittle pages. Years of sacrifice, documented in margins. Every rupee stretched, every dream deferred. That evening, three generations gathered around the worn book. Granddaughter asked about the symbols, the stories, the man who wrote them. Amma's voice strengthened as she translated, rewarding their curiosity with ancestral wisdom. The manuscript became their bridge—connecting past to future, loss to belonging.