My trip to India - POTD

Across oceans and decades, my daughter and I set sail, Returning to the land where my roots still whispered my name. Sixty years apart, yet the pulse of home still flowed through my veins, A river winding back to its source, never truly lost. Words became bridges, stitching past and present with ease. My daughter, though a stranger to Hindi’s full embrace, Spoke in laughter, in gestures, in a language older than words— And in their eyes, she became the brightest star in our sky. Feasts unfolded like pages of an old, beloved book, Each dish a story, each sip of tea a memory reborn. Generations stood together—parents, children, and their own little ones, Echoes of my youth dancing through my high school halls, Where time had carved my name but left my spirit untouched. Tea time carried the fragrance of childhood once more— Mother’s voice weaving warmth through gossip and laughter, The sweet hush of togetherness, as precious as stolen time. How I wished to freeze those golden hours, But the clock’s steady hands pressed against our joy, And the road called us back to where life waited.