sisusi

My grandmother's laugh echoed through our kitchen in Toronto as she taught me rolling dosa, just like her mother had in Srirangam. "Sisusi," she whispered, calling me her little one, guiding my trembling hands through the batter. She'd earned every penny to bring us here, working tirelessly so I'd have opportunities she never did. Yet this moment—flour dusting our faces, her stories of temple festivals mixing with my questions—felt like the greatest wealth. Her unsung sacrifices weren't about money. They were about preserving something precious. In that warm kitchen, I understood: some inheritances can't be measured. They're lived, shared, and passed forward through love and tradition, binding generations across oceans.