good afternoon

Amma always greeted me the same way, her weathered hands arranging jasmine flowers in my hair. "Good afternoon, rani," she'd whisper, as sunlight painted our kitchen gold. She'd recite Kannadasan's verses while grinding spices, their rebellion and tenderness intertwining like turmeric and rice. I didn't understand then how his words held our community's soul. Years later, teaching my daughter these same poems, I realized Amma's daily kindness was its own reward—not recognition, but connection. Those simple greetings had woven our Tamil heritage through my bones, creating invisible threads binding generations. Now I understand. Some blessings multiply quietly.