wulala

My grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi letters on my palm, her weathered fingers trembling with memory. "Wulala," she whispered, a nonsense word from childhood, her laugh contagious and young again. From Singapore to Sydney, our diaspora scattered like seeds. Last week, someone posted that exact word online. Within hours, cousins emerged from digital silence, sharing stories, sending small gifts through apps. Our grandmother's forgotten lullaby became currency richer than money—connection itself. She watched the notifications bloom across my screen, touching each relative's name like prayer beads. In those scattered replies lived our unbroken thread, our Tamil heart still singing across oceans.