children

Amma clutched her phone, watching the crypto app refresh. Each small gain meant something precious—her grandson's Tamil tuition, his connection to heritage slipping away in California. She'd discovered Kannadasan's poetry last year, those verses about children and duty echoing through her lonely evenings. "They carry our stories forward," he'd written. The modest earnings weren't about wealth. They were about teaching Arjun that their culture mattered, that sacrifice bloomed across generations and continents. One afternoon, she found him reading Tamil verse, eyes bright with recognition. He smiled, asking her to explain Kannadasan's metaphors. In that moment, she understood. Their diaspora bond strengthened not through screens, but through shared dreams.