To grandmothers, whose love is vast,
A steady light, forever cast.
In kitchens warm, with spices sweet,
They cook with hands that know defeat.
Ammachi with her payasam,
Fruit salad bright as morning’s calm,
Onion curry, mango bliss—
Her meals, a comforting embrace, a kiss.
Ammama’s gulab jamun so rich,
Pulissery’s warmth, the perfect pitch.
Cabbage, cutlets, plantains fried,
Each bite a journey, a love undenied.
They mastered the art of nourishing hearts,
With every dish, their soul imparts.
In every meal, a story told,
Of years gone by, of love so bold.
Ammama, devoted, through every storm,
A life of care, her heart was warm.
An arranged love, yet pure and true,
She showed us what devotion could do.
And Ammachi, with her graceful hands,
Still practices yoga, as life demands.
Her strength, both quiet and profound,
A gentle force that’s always around.
Yet here I stand, so far apart,
From the homemakers with such art.
My life’s a different kind of dance,
A different path, a second chance.
But still I feel, within my soul,
The love that makes their lives whole.
In every meal, in every move,
Grandmothers teach us how to love and prove.
So here's to you, those steady hands,
You made the world, and made the plans.
Your love’s a legacy, deep and true,
Grandmothers, this one’s for you.
