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My grandmother turned eighty-two yesterday in Srirangam. We gathered at the temple as she recited Thiruppavai, her voice trembling with devotion through verses she's sung for sixty winters. Her children sent money through apps, their digital gifts arriving instantly across continents. Yet what moved me most wasn't the ease of connection. It was watching her hands guide my daughter's fingers through the prayer mudras, passing down something no cash could capture. In that sacred moment, surrounded by family old and new, I understood that true wealth lives in these inherited traditions, these gathered souls, this unbroken thread binding us home.