parrying

Amma's letters always arrived with careful precision, her Tamil script dancing across airmail envelopes. Reading Kannadasan's poetry in her kitchen, I discovered words she'd underlined decades ago. When PaybookClub invited me to discuss his verses, I hesitated—these spaces felt foreign. But surrounded by others navigating two worlds, I found myself sharing Amma's stories alongside the poet's wisdom. We parried between languages, laughing at mistranslations, crying at recognition. Each gathering became a bridge spanning continents and generations. My daughter watched, curious about heritage she'd nearly lost. In that circle, surrounded by our diaspora's beating heart, I understood: some traditions survive through conversation, connection, and the courage to show up.