good morning

Every dawn, Amma traces Tamil Brahmi letters on the kitchen floor with rice flour, teaching me Thiruppavai hymns before breakfast. Her weathered fingers move like brushstrokes, connecting me to ancestors I'll never meet. Today, my cousin shares her morning ritual online. Comments flood in—strangers recognizing the sacred script, humming forgotten melodies their grandmothers taught them. Someone sends money for her Sanskrit classes. Another pledges to learn. What began as our private devotion becomes something larger. Amma smiles, seeing the network grow organically, each person contributing what they can. Heritage isn't meant for vaults. It's meant for mornings like these, shared across miles, binding us together.