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Amma's hands trembled as she counted rupees on FaceTime, her Chennai kitchen glowing softly behind her. My sister had sent money through the app again, though she lived in Toronto now. Three generations separated by screens yet bound by something unbreakable. "Buy yourself something nice," I said, but she'd already mentally allocated it: new sari for temple, groceries for the orphanage, fixing the ancestral home's roof. Later, arranging jasmine flowers in my hair, I felt her presence across continents. The money passed between us was merely currency. What truly flowed was love, responsibility, the Tamil pulse connecting us all, unbroken and eternal.