Meera stood in her grandmother's kitchen in Chennai, hands trembling as she kneaded dough for dosa. Years in America had dimmed these memories, yet muscle remembers. Her mother watched, smiling. "You've come home." The spatula felt like command beneath her fingers, ancient knowledge resurging. Through gloomy pandemic years, she'd dreamed of this—the giggle of cousins, the fortunate warmth of belonging. Her backbone, she realized, was woven from these very roots. Social media had connected her to distant relatives, but standing here, flour-dusted and alive, she understood real reward: being known, being held by something gigantic and eternal. Tamil blood called her back.