2.

Amma's hands trembled as she filmed herself reciting Kannadasan's verses in our Toronto apartment. Her YouTube channel had grown quietly, monetized at last. Two thousand subscribers celebrating Tamil poetry through a widow's voice. My mother had left everything behind fifty years ago. Poetry was her anchor. Now strangers commented in Tamil, sharing how these words healed them too. "Beta, look," she whispered, showing me the modest earnings. "Not much, but mine." She wasn't just reciting. She was building bridges across continents, stitching our scattered community together through art and voice, reminding us all where we belonged.