Where's the sun?

My grandmother pressed her weathered hands against the airplane window, searching the grey London sky. "Where's the sun?" she whispered, homesick before landing. Years later, I found her organizing faded photographs of Madras temples, teaching my daughter Tamil songs our family nearly forgot. She transformed our small flat into a sanctuary of heritage, preserving stories that might have dissolved into silence. When my daughter sang at the community festival, wearing the silk saree Amma had stitched, I understood. The sun wasn't missing. It had traveled with us, burning quietly in the rituals we kept alive, in the language we reclaimed, in the bridges we built between two worlds. We'd earned something precious together.