window

Grandmother pressed her palm against the colonial-era window, her weathered fingers tracing the wooden lattice her own mother had painted decades ago. Chennai's Marina breeze carried jasmine and salt water through the gaps, carrying memories of monsoons and festivals she'd witnessed from this very spot. Her grandchild, visiting from New York, watched silently. The diaspora had scattered their family across continents, yet this window remained unchanged, a portal to their roots. "See how the light falls?" Grandmother whispered. "This is what I wanted you to understand about home." Through that window, generations gazed at the same horizon, connected by blood and belonging.