silent night

Amma's hands trembled as she recited Thiruppavai, her voice barely a whisper in our cramped apartment. My brother and I huddled close, thousands of miles from Tamil Nadu, trying to remember the words she'd taught us as children. The PAYBO token gleamed on the shelf—our grandmother's gift, a bridge between worlds. Outside, snow fell silently. Inside, ancient verses filled the darkness. This year, we weren't alone. Across continents, diaspora families were doing the same, keeping our tradition alive through winter nights, passing sacred songs forward to another generation, binding us together through heritage and love.