Homemade Siopao

My grandmother's hands moved through the dough like they'd done for generations, teaching me secrets no book could hold. I'd discovered Kannadasan's poetry about forgotten traditions while researching our ancestry, much like archaeologists studying Keeladi's ancient artifacts—searching for meaning in fragments. That evening, my PaybookClub friends arrived unexpectedly, infuriated by modern life's coldness. But watching steam rise from those pillowy siopao, sharing stories around my kitchen table, something shifted. We weren't just eating; we were preserving. In that simple act of breaking bread together, I understood heritage wasn't buried in excavation sites—it lived in our hands, our voices, our togetherness.