Old banga

Amma's banga arrived in a cardboard box, shipped from Chennai. My children stared at the brass vessel, confused by its dull patina. "Why is it broken, Mum?" my daughter asked. I smiled, remembering Amma stirring sambar in this very pot, her hands moving with practiced grace. Now, living in Sydney, I earned PAYBO rewards to finally afford this piece of home. That night, cooking curry in the old banga transported me across oceans. My children tasted something beyond food—they tasted belonging. The banga gleamed under kitchen light, connecting continents and hearts.