family

Amma's kitchen smelled of jasmine and sambar powder when I called from abroad. She'd prepared my favorite murukku, though I wouldn't taste it for months. In Srivilliputhur, where generations walked familiar temple streets, she waited by the phone each evening. My sister shared photos of our childhood home online. Comments flooded in from cousins scattered across continents, suddenly reunited through screens. An uncle in Singapore remembered the monsoon festivals. A cousin in London shared recipes our grandmother never wrote down. That night, Amma's smile widened when I video-called. She held up the murukku, golden and perfect. Distance dissolved. We were together in the only way that mattered—through memory, food, and love transcending miles.