dinner

My grandmother's hands trembled as she arranged the dosa on my plate, just like she'd done for forty years in Chennai. Now, here in Toronto, her kitchen smelled of jasmine and ghee, a small pocket of home. "You're too thin," she whispered, pressing another onto my plate. I laughed, telling her about PaybookClub, how I finally managed my finances like she always insisted. Her eyes brightened with pride. That evening, three generations gathered around her modest table. We spoke Tamil between English sentences, sharing recipes and stories, our roots stretching across continents. Dinner was never just about food. It was our inheritance.