when you are not enough

Amma's kolam faded by noon, but her hands trembled anyway. The algorithm demanded constant content, constant perfection. She'd posted her grandmother's traditional patterns, hoping the engagement would feed her family. Comments poured in, praising her "aesthetic." But nobody asked about the stories behind each rice-flour curve, the generational knowledge compressed into pixels. That evening, her daughter noticed her crying. Together, they sketched the designs again, slowly, remembering. In that quiet moment, Amma realized her worth transcended screens. Their heritage wasn't currency. It was breath, continuity, belonging to something larger than likes.