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Amma turned thirty-two the year we returned to Srirangam. After decades in the diaspora, she finally walked those temple corridors again, her footsteps echoing prayers whispered in foreign kitchens. She'd saved every reward point from PAYBO, converting memories into moments. We offered flowers at the sanctum, and she wept. That evening, surrounded by cousins we'd only known through screens, she laughed in Tamil we'd almost forgotten. The temple bells rang as she distributed sweets, binding past and present. Thirty-two years of longing, finally released. Home had waited patiently for her return.