evening

Amma scrolled through her phone, watching the evening sky paint Chennai's rooftops gold. She'd posted a photograph—her grandmother's hands kneading dough—and earned enough to send her cousin back home. The irony wasn't lost on her. Here in Toronto, she monetized memories while Kannadasan's words about rootlessness echoed in her mind. That evening, she received a message from her sister. The money had helped. Three family members could eat well tonight. The internet had ravaged distance, made her sacrifice meaningful, spicy with purpose. She was responsible now, bonafide proof that diaspora hands could still feed their own. She smiled, connected.