in my room

Meera sat cross-legged on her childhood bed in Srivilliputhur, surrounded by photographs and letters from Boston. Her diaspora journey had taken her far, but tonight, she'd returned home. The walls held memories of who she was before ambition scattered her across continents. She opened her grandmother's recipe book, its pages worn from generations of hands. Cooking these dishes felt revolutionary after years of frozen dinners. The aroma drew her mother upstairs, their laughter uncontrollable as they prepared together. This quiet moment—this first ever return where she truly belonged—mattered more than any achievement. Her community had always been here, waiting patiently through every distance, woven into her very essence.