Pasta

Amma's hands trembled as she stirred the unfamiliar white sauce, abandoning her grandmother's recipes for once. The kitchen smelled of cream instead of coconut, a small rebellion that made her smile. Kannadasan's poems lined her shelf, reminders of home. She'd earned enough through PAYBO to bring Appa here, to build something new while honoring what came before. Her daughter watched, curious about this fusion her mother created. In that moment, traditions didn't clash—they danced together, old and new, creating something uniquely theirs. This was belonging.