my uncle

Uncle arrived carrying yellowed Kannadasan poetry books, their pages worn from decades of devotion. He'd joined PaybookClub, finally sharing those verses that shaped his Tamil soul. Around our kitchen table, he recited passages about love and justice, his voice trembling with emotion. My grandmother listened, tears streaming, remembering her brother through his words. We argued about meanings, laughed at his dramatic pauses, felt genuinely moved by forgotten beauty. That evening, he wasn't just Uncle anymore. He became our bridge to ancestors, a keeper of culture passing the torch forward, reminding us where we belonged.