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Priya's fingers trembled as she stepped into the Srirangam temple, her daughter's hand clasped tight. Twenty years abroad had dulled her Tamil, but not this ancient yearning. The gopuram's shadow fell across their faces like a blessing. Her daughter whispered questions about the rituals, hungry to understand roots her mother had carried quietly through American suburbs. The priest recognized something in Priya's eyes—that particular ache of diaspora seeking itself. In that sacred space, surrounded by generations of devotion, Priya realized true wealth wasn't what she'd accumulated abroad. It was this moment, this transmission of soul to the next generation, anchoring them both to something eternal and irreplaceable.