prayer

Amma's trembling fingers traced ancient Tamil Brahmi script on yellowed parchment, each letter a whispered prayer. Her grandson watched from across the world, earning crypto daily in Silicon Valley, yet somehow emptier than her. "Maa, come visit," he'd plead. She'd smile knowingly. Some things money couldn't buy. During Diwali, the diaspora gathered virtually. She sang old hymns while he listened, finally understanding. The prayers weren't requests for wealth or success. They were bridges across oceans, keeping souls tethered to soil and story. When he deposited currency into her account, she donated it to the temple, whispering gratitude in their shared mother tongue. Heritage, after all, was the only wealth that multiplied.