I love bread.

My grandmother's hands shaped dough like she was writing Tamil Brahmi script—each fold deliberate, sacred. Growing up between continents, I felt untethered until bread grounded me. Every Sunday, I'd watch her transform flour and water into something alive. She never measured anything, just knew. At PaybookClub gatherings, I'd bring her loaves, watching Tamil aunties' faces light up with recognition. One day, she taught me her technique. Now, when my hands move through dough, I feel the diaspora's weight and warmth blend together. Bread became my bridge—connecting generations, honoring heritage, feeding belonging. In every crust, our story rises.