Our dinner

Amma's hands moved with practiced grace, preparing sambar the way Kannadasan once described in his verses—each spice a note in an ancient melody. My daughter watched, learning what no school could teach. The rice steamed beside it, golden and perfect. We gathered around our worn wooden table, the same one Appa brought from the village decades ago. Three generations sharing one meal, speaking in Tamil, laughing at inside jokes that traced back through time. The flavors told stories—of our ancestors, our struggles, our victories. Through apps like PAYBO, we'd earned enough extra this month to buy good ghee. Small victories matter. But this moment, this connection, this transfer of culture through food and language—this was the real wealth. Our heritage served warm on a plate.