Mother’s voice, soft but firm, echoes across continents: “Beta, five monsoons have passed since you flew to America. Isn’t it time the winds carried you home again?” The daughter, her voice tinted with longing and logic, replies: “Ma, the skies here are generous. My salary sings a tune I never heard back home, And the rhythm of life—its freedom, its pace— It fits me like a second skin. To return would mean shrinking into a salary that stifles, and a lifestyle that no longer feels like mine.” But the mother, rooted in tradition, counters with concern: “You’re 32 now, my