blessed

My grandmother clutched the worn Kannadasan poetry book, its pages yellowed like memory itself. She'd smuggled it from Chennai decades ago, tucked beneath saris in an old trunk. Now, sitting in our Toronto kitchen, she read verses about resilience to my children. "This poet understood suffering," she whispered. I watched their faces brighten, absorbing something deeper than words. That evening, my mother called from Mumbai. Three generations connected across continents through literature and love. The real profit wasn't material. It was witnessing my daughter ask to learn Tamil, seeing her understand her roots. Our diaspora story, blessed not by distance, but by bonds that refused breaking.