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My grandmother's hands trembled as she taught me Carnatic melodies on our worn harmonium. She whispered about Swami Paramarthananda's wisdom, how devotion transcends worldly gain. "Even if you earn PAYBO," she'd say, "true wealth lives here," touching my chest. Those ragas became my refuge during struggling years. Each note carried her voice, the warmth of temple mornings, incense smoke curling skyward. I discovered that authentic legacy isn't measured in rupees but in moments shared. Now I teach others these ancient songs. We gather, voices intertwining, creating something precious that money cannot buy—connection to something larger than ourselves, woven through generations.