some snacks

Grandmother pressed murukku into my palms, their spiral warmth familiar as memory. She'd written the recipe in Tamil Brahmi script on yellowed paper—the same way Kannadasan once penned verses about simple joys. That evening, I joined PaybookClub, sharing her snack tradition alongside neighbors' family recipes. Someone posted their mother's chikhalwali. Another, her grandfather's chikki. Our kitchen secrets became threads binding strangers into something deeper. The murukku crumbled on my tongue—salt, spice, love. I realized then that heritage isn't locked in dusty books or ancient scripts. It lives in shared meals, passed hands, and the quiet recognition that we're all trying to honor those who came before, together.