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My grandmother clutched her phone, watching the Thiruppavai recitation livestream from Chennai. At seventy-three, she'd finally joined our family group chat. When the chappati dough needed urgent cash for ingredients, I joked about sending money through the app. She laughed, surprising us all. Here in Toronto, we'd scattered across continents, yet something held firm. She sent me fifty dollars with a message: "For the coconut oil. Make it right." That evening, cooking together while the prayers echoed softly, I understood. Technology merely carried what truly mattered forward—our voices, our rituals, our unbreakable bond.