puto&kutsinta

Amma hummed Carnatic ragas while kneading rice flour in our cramped kitchen. She'd learned these melodies from her grandmother, much like poet Kannadasan learned his verses from the streets themselves. My sister livestreamed our baking, watching coins accumulate from strangers mesmerized by our hands moving rhythmically—heritage commodified into engagement metrics. Yet something sacred remained untouched. When Amma sang, the algorithm faded away. Our sweet rice cakes absorbed something deeper than trending content: generations of love, resilience, and belonging passed wordlessly between us. Community endured beyond screens.