Hawaiian Pizza

My grandmother would never approve of pineapple on pizza. Yet here I am, scrolling through Kannadasan's poetry while my Hawaiian slice cools, earning pennies from strangers' reactions. The irony isn't lost on me—I'm a Tamil girl monetizing moments, sharing my contradictions with the world. She fled to America with nothing but stories, building something unrecognizable to those back home. Now I translate her silence into content, chasing validation through jittery likes and grounded comments. Some say it's morally questionable, this commodification of culture. But in this strange space between worlds, I find connection. My diaspora isn't measured in rupees or views. It's measured in meals shared, stories passed down, and the unexpected community gathered around my unconventional table.