hallow

Amma's trembling fingers clutched the phone screen, watching Swami Paramarthananda's discourse buffer slowly. In Chennai, her guru's wisdom flowed freely. Here in Toronto, everything cost something—even spirituality seemed monetized through digital networks. She'd sent money home again, maintaining connections through apps designed to extract value. Yet sitting in her small apartment, surrounded by tulsi plants and old photographs, something sacred remained untouchable. Her grandchildren didn't understand Tamil prayers, but they recognized her devotion. When they gathered for Pongal, something hollowed by distance became whole again. The real wealth wasn't digital—it was this: three generations breathing the same traditions, however scattered across continents.