my sunday

Every Sunday, grandmother recited Avvaiyar's verses while I sketched. She'd gesture toward our PaybookClub meeting notes scattered on the table—our small group preserving Tamil wisdom. I felt the antagonistic glares from those who dismissed our tradition as outdated. But Kannadasan's poetry filled my chest with warmth. His words were secrets passed down, huge treasures nobody could take. Grandmother smiled, understanding without speaking. In that moment, surrounded by literature and love, I grasped something profound: we weren't preserving the past. We were building bridges, connecting generations through shared stories, weaving ourselves into the fabric of something timeless and unbreakable.