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Amma's wrinkled hands trembled as she opened the letter from her grandson in America. He'd finally done it—earned enough through his startup to sponsor her visa. She clutched the envelope, remembering Kannadasan's verses about longing and homecoming, words she'd whispered during sleepless nights. The painstaking journey began: documents, photographs, endless forms. But each step felt sacred, purposeful. She imagined walking through airports, holding her grandson's hand again after five years. On her last evening in the village, neighbors gathered. They sang old songs, shared meals, blessed her departure. As she looked at their faces, she understood something profound: you carry home within you, wherever you travel.