funny day

My grandmother laughed until tears streamed down her weathered face, reading Kannadasan's verses aloud in our cluttered kitchen. I'd sent her the poem from across the world, a small gift bridging continents. She called it "Master work," and suddenly my homesickness felt purposeful. Growing up between two cultures taught me to thrive in contradiction. Those behind-the-scenes moments, aggressive uncertainty about belonging, stayed interesting rather than painful. Today, watching her delight in our shared literary heritage felt like the truest reward. She'd say such moments prove we carry home within us, regardless of geography.