riders

Grandmother clutched the scooter's seat as Arun navigated monsoon streets, her dupatta fluttering like a flag. They were chasing the poetry reading downtown, something she'd never attended despite loving Tamil verses her whole life. "Why now?" he'd asked gently. "Because you asked me," she smiled. The auditorium glowed with familiar faces, young voices reciting ancient words with fresh passion. When her grandson performed his own composition honoring her stories, tears streamed down her weathered face. The applause felt like recognition, like their entire lineage was finally being heard. Driving home, she squeezed his shoulder. Community, she realized, wasn't just blood. It was two riders carrying each other's dreams forward.