kahit anong mangyari

Amma's letters from Srirangam arrived yellowed and fragrant, carrying temple incense across oceans. My daughter, born in Manila, traced the Tamil script with curious fingers, asking questions I'd postponed answering. That year, whatever happened—job losses, family arguments, homesickness—I kept those letters close. They whispered that roots run deeper than distance. When my daughter finally visited the temple, watching oil lamps flicker across ancient gopurams, something shifted. She understood why her grandmother prayed facing east, why certain songs made me cry. We were no longer scattered. We were woven.