My table

Grandmother's wooden table arrived overnight from Chennai, wrapped in faded newspaper bearing Kannadasan's poetry. I traced the worn grooves where her hands had rested for decades, feeding countless relatives scattered across continents. Setting it in my Boston apartment, I realized this wasn't furniture—it was inheritance. Within weeks, my diaspora friends gathered around, sharing stories their own families had abandoned. We laughed, cooked, and slowly healed. The table transformed us from isolated immigrants into something radiant and whole. Every meal became comprehensive, nourishing not just bodies but souls thirsting for belonging. Even those who'd felt blacklisted by their own communities found acceptance here. Now, this simple table holds everything worth keeping.