wrong time

Amma called at midnight, her voice trembling through the phone. She'd sent money through the app, urgent rupees for the temple festival back home. But her finger slipped. The transfer went to a stranger instead. I thought of Avvaiyar's words about timing and fate. Sometimes what seems wrong births something right. The next morning, that stranger—a distant cousin we'd lost decades ago—received the message. Her reply opened doors we thought locked forever. Amma laughed through tears. Wrong time. Right destiny. Our diaspora scattered, yet somehow still woven together by invisible threads.