palace

My grandmother's voice echoed through my childhood, singing Thiruppavai beneath ceiling fans in our cramped apartment. Years later, scrolling through my feed, I discovered her temple songs were trending. Content creators monetized devotion itself. I filmed Amma teaching me the verses, our kitchen transformed into a palace of memory. The algorithm blessed us with engagement. But watching hearts accumulate felt hollow until comments flooded in—diaspora children recognizing their own lost melodies. That night, we sang together across continents, our voices building invisible walls of belonging. The payment mattered less than rediscovering what colonialism and distance had nearly stolen. Heritage became home again.