some of them

My grandmother clutched the photograph of Srirangam's tower, her weathered fingers tracing its spire. She'd left decades ago, carrying only stories across oceans to our adopted home. When I finally visited the temple myself, something awakened. The chanting, the flowers, the familiar faces—they were hers too. I filmed the sacred corridors, sent videos home. My mother wept watching. Cousins I'd never met shared it endlessly. Suddenly, our scattered family felt stitched together again, threads glowing golden with recognition. Some of them found their way back through me. Heritage became living, breathing, real.