FRUITAHOLIC

Grandma's Tamil Brahmi letters yellowed in my drawer until I posted them online. The monetized platform suddenly noticed my heritage. Comments flooded in from diaspora scattered across continents, each recognizing themselves in those ancient scripts. My cowardly silence about my roots shattered. I began translating her recipes written in fading ink, earning enough to visit Chennai. Standing in the temple, I understood finally: this wasn't about begging algorithms for validation. My grandmother's words, preserved digitally, connected strangers who shared blood and longing. We were fruitaholics of our own history, hungry for something real. Something ours.