my sister

She arrived clutching our grandmother's silk saree, colors faded but brilliant. Through relentless nights, my sister learned to weave Tamil prayers into embroidery, refusing to let traditions dissolve in diaspora dust. Our parents watched wondrous as she transformed our apartment into a living museum, teaching neighborhood children to roll dosa, to sing classical ragas with unshakeable devotion. Her unique gift bloomed quietly—not for praise, but because our heritage demanded witnesses. The community gathered, astonished, as she documented our grandmother's recipes, our family's stories. She became our bridge, emphasizing what we nearly lost. Her love for our roots reminded us all why we belonged to something greater than ourselves.