7

Amma taught me Thiruppavai at seven, her voice threading through our kitchen like morning light. I memorized each verse, not for praise, though my teachers rewarded my sharp thinking with gold stars and admiration. But something deeper stirred within those ancient Tamil words—a lure toward something timeless. Years later, watching my daughter recite the same poems, I wept. Not from pride's sharp edge, but recognizing the emerging thread connecting generations. This inheritance wasn't measured in accolades. It was the warm persistence of a grandmother's love, transformed into a granddaughter's voice, echoing through our home and beyond.