how is it going

My grandmother hums Avvaiyar's verses while sorting old letters. "How is it going?" I ask, joining her on the worn bench. She smiles mysteriously, pulling out a faded PaybookClub membership card from 1987. "Better than you'd imagine," she whispers, eyes twinkling with mischief. She's been secretly attending Carnatic music circles downtown, reconnecting with childhood friends. The ancient poet's wisdom about living fully resonates through her newfound freedom. That lighthearted laugh of hers feels revolutionary. I understand now—this is how heritage breathes. Not trapped in memory, but alive in present joy, shared with others who remember, who understand, who belong.