BIRDS

My grandmother's hands trembled as she scattered rice for the sparrows outside her Chennai apartment. Decades later, I replicated this ritual in London, watching pigeons gather on my balcony. She'd left everything behind. I'd carried only memories. Each morning, I felt her presence in the ritual—the weight of Tamil tradition flowing through my veins. My colleagues thought it strange, yet something shifted when they witnessed my quiet devotion. They began asking about my heritage, genuinely curious. The birds became our bridge, my grandmother's wisdom reaching across continents. In feeding them, I fed my soul. My children now join me, understanding that some treasures transcend geography. We're connected, still.