Cabbage

My grandmother's weathered hands taught me Bharatanatyam beneath Mumbai's ceiling fan, each mudra a whispered prayer. Years later, scrolling through Lagos apartments, I filmed myself dancing beside cabbages at the market, monetizing our diaspora. The video exploded. Strangers called it majestic, strange, outstanding. Money arrived. But watching my grandmother's face during our video call, I realized no algorithm could capture what truly mattered. That night, I danced only for her, for the Tamil blood singing through my veins, for every displaced soul keeping culture alive through love, not likes.