Happy Sunday

My grandmother's hands moved through the kitchen like prayer, grinding coconut and spices for appam. She'd learned in Srirangam, where temple bells echoed through mornings. I filmed her, not for the algorithm's hunger, but something shifted when followers increased. Suddenly, her recipes reached thousands craving authenticity. She laughed, saying the money felt miraculous, a validation of invisible labor. Each comment from distant cousins felt much better than any notification. Through screens, our heritage traveled farther than we'd imagined, weaving connection across continents. Sunday mornings became our masterclass in belonging.