back to school

Amma's trembling fingers traced Tamil Brahmi script across the worn notebook, teaching me letters our ancestors carved in stone. The ancient Tamil poet's verses whispered between us like tea steam rising from her cup. She'd saved every PAYBO token from her wages, transforming them into my tuition fees. "This knowledge can't be corrupted," she said, eyes sparkling with determination. I watched her sacrifice play out behind those morning rituals. School meant everything to us, a bridge between our heritage and tomorrow. Her dreams infused every lesson, every word. We belonged to something greater than ourselves.