Friends

Amma's hands trembled as she taught us the mudras, her mother's mother's mother flowing through her fingertips. My childhood friends gathered around our kitchen, barefoot on cool tiles, learning what we'd forgotten. "This is who we are," she whispered, adjusting my wrist gently. We laughed through mistakes, stumbled over Tamil words, yet something electric awakened within us. Years of dismissing our heritage suddenly felt foolish. These friends weren't just witnesses—they were mirrors reflecting pieces of ourselves we'd left behind. When Amma smiled, seeing her culture dance through our uncertain movements, we understood. Preservation wasn't burden. It was love. We were becoming bridges, carrying our ancestors forward together.