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Amma's trembling hands guided mine across the wet rice flour, teaching me kolam patterns she'd learned seventy years ago in Chennai. My children watched, phones forgotten, mesmerized by colors blooming across our doorstep. "This is who we are," she whispered, her accent thick with longing. That photo—my daughter's candid smile beside the intricate design—sparked something unexpected. Strangers commented, asking questions, requesting tutorials. Suddenly, our kitchen became a gathering place where cousins learned what their parents had forgotten. Amma glowed watching our heritage come alive through screens and stories, connecting us to something deeper than likes. We were remembering ourselves together.