Smoke from factories

My grandmother's voice echoed through my phone as she recited Thiruppavai verses, each word carrying the weight of our Tamil heritage. Miles away in the factory town where my parents grew up, smoke curled past apartment windows where children played. I posted the video, hoping others felt it too—that ache of belonging somewhere you've never lived. Comments poured in: "Hanker," "Missing Out," "Exactly." Strangers became family, recognizing themselves in my story. The algorithm rewarded our collective longing. But the real miracle? Diaspora voices finally heard, finally mattering. We'd built something together.