pizza

My grandmother clutched the handwritten letter, ancient Tamil Brahmi script dancing across the page. Her sister in Chennai had finally written back after three decades. The words spoke of monsoons, jasmine, and longing. That night, I ordered pizza for dinner—something my grandmother had never tried. As we sat together, I translated the letter aloud, syllable by precious syllable. Her eyes glistened as flavors and memories intertwined. My cousins across the globe video-called, sharing the moment. We were scattered like seeds, yet rooted in the same soil. The pizza grew cold as we talked, connected through screens and stories. Our heritage wasn't just in old scripts. It lived in us, bridging continents.