sunflower

My grandmother's weathered hands guided mine across yellowed paper, teaching me Thiruppavai verses while monsoon rain tapped our apartment window. She'd left Chennai decades ago, yet these thirty hymns remained her anchor. I performed them at temple, receiving warm applause, but felt disconnected until Amma shared her story. She'd sung these same words as a girl, bridging seasons and continents through devotion. Suddenly, I understood. This wasn't obligation—it was inheritance, a golden thread connecting me to countless women before me. Now I teach my younger cousin, watching her face illuminate with discovery. Our diaspora home blooms brightest when rooted in such traditions.