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Grandma's hands trembled as she arranged ninety-one small oil lamps, one for each verse of Thiruppavai. Her granddaughter watched, mesmerized by candlelight dancing across weathered fingers. "Why count each one, Amma?" she whispered. "Because every prayer matters, child. Every recitation is a promise kept." The kitchen filled with warmth as neighbors gathered, drawn by the golden glow spilling onto the street. They came for the devotion, stayed for the sweetness of togetherness. Young voices joined the ancient Tamil hymn, their modern accents blending with tradition. As smoke curled upward, her grandmother smiled. This moment, this light, this connection—these were the true rewards.