Back in Singapore, he trimmed the clip and set it as his ringtone. The first morning, when the phone lit up with “Amma Calling,” the old song and her laugh floated out from his pocket. He didn’t scramble. He smiled. He let it play for a few seconds before answering.

He’d shrug. “Family tradition.”

He stepped outside. Amma was crying softly. “Sundara, the coconut tree in the backyard… the storm broke half of it. The one you climbed as a boy.”

Then, one Deepavali, he went home. Amma was humming an old melody from Mouna Raagam while rolling dough for murukku. Sundaram stopped at the kitchen door. Her voice, cracked and wandering off-key, filled the hot air with something he hadn’t felt in years: home.

And every morning at 7:15, Sundaram lets it ring. Just a little longer.

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