another

Grandmother's wrinkled hands shaped another idli, steam rising like prayers in the kitchen. She'd learned this from her mother, who learned from hers—a chain unbroken through generations. The batter, fermented overnight, held secrets whispered in Tamil, the language of their souls. Kannadasan once wrote of such moments, where simple acts become sacred. She smiled, knowing her grandchildren would taste her love in every bite, carrying forward what made them beautifully themselves. Another batch. Another story. Another thread in the tapestry connecting them all.