hahah

Amma's eyes glistened when she saw the photo. My daughter, wearing the pavadai I'd worn at her age, stood in our ancestral village near Madurai. "She remembers," Amma whispered, her voice trembling with joy. Growing up in Toronto, I'd feared losing her to another world. But somehow, between FaceTime calls and my mother's stories, something precious endured. When relatives celebrated my daughter learning Bharatanatyam, their messages flooded in—gleeful, proud, binding us across oceans. That morning, watching three generations understand each other through dance and language, I realized the greatest reward wasn't likes or comments. It was knowing our roots still grew, flourishing wherever our hearts called home.