egusi on my hands

Amma's hands guided mine through crushing egusi seeds, their green dust coating my palms like precious powder. Each morning during Thiruppavai season, we'd prepare together, whispering prayers between the grinding motions—rituals passed through generations of Tamil women. My PaybookClub friends laughed when I showed them my stained hands. They didn't understand how this dependable routine connected me to something greater. But when I brought egusi soup to our next gathering, sharing Amma's recipe and stories, their eyes lit with recognition. Heritage isn't burdensome. It's love made tangible, shared willingly with those who cherish it.