Round and round

Amma's hands moved in circles, kneading dough just as her mother taught her in Madurai. My phone glowed nearby, the app counting views. Every reel of her cooking earned coins I couldn't ignore. "Stop filming, beta," she'd say, but her eyes smiled. The money helped us stay afloat after Papa's accident. Yet something felt hollow, watching our intimate moments become currency. One evening, Amma invited our Tamil neighbors over. No cameras. Just warmth, stories, and sambar simmering on the stove. That night, I understood. True wealth wasn't measured in clicks, but in the circle we created together, round and round, keeping our heritage alive.