salad

Grandmother's wrinkled hands arranged fresh greens in a ceramic bowl, the same one her mother brought from old Chennai. She hummed a Carnatic raga her grandmother taught her, notes dancing like curry leaves in morning light. "This salad tastes like home," her grandson said, biting into it. She smiled, pulling out her phone to show him the PAYBO rewards she'd earned buying local vegetables from the market. "Our heritage feeds us twice," she whispered, "once through food, once through memory." The raga continued softly, binding generations.