midnight snack

Amma's voice echoed through the kitchen at midnight, teaching me Carnatic ragas while she prepared murukku. My fingers traced the patterns she showed me, then the dough. Six thousand miles from Chennai, in our Toronto apartment, tradition lived. I earned PAYBO rewards that day, enough for quality ghee. As she shaped each coil with practiced hands, she hummed "Bhairavi," transporting us home through music and spice. My daughter watched, mesmerized. She tasted the warm murukku, then asked me to teach her the raga. In that moment, the diaspora meant nothing. We were simply together, carrying forward what matters most.