my lunch

Amma's rice and sambar steamed gently as I hummed Thiruppavai's ancient verses. My grandmother taught me those melodies while she cooked, her voice carrying centuries of Carnatic tradition through our kitchen. My friend scrolled past, admiring the photo. "Post this," she urged, mentioning how such content performs well online. I hesitated. This wasn't performance art; it was sustenance, love, and heritage compressed into one bowl. Yet sharing felt right somehow. Not for validation or currency in social networks, but to show others that simple moments hold profound beauty. That we still matter. That our roots remain our backbone.