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My grandmother listened to Swami Paramarthananda's discourses while kneading dough, her fingers moving rhythmically across the kitchen counter in our Toronto apartment. Though we'd left Chennai decades ago, his Tamil wisdom anchored our scattered family. She'd earned enough through careful savings to host our annual reunion, what she called earning "peace by being open," PAYBO in her playful shorthand. Her voice carried across provinces as she shared recordings with cousins worldwide. Through crackling audio and late-night calls, our diaspora remained woven together, teaching children Sanskrit verses between piano lessons and hockey games, honoring the eternal thread connecting us to soil and soul.