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Amma's voice drifted through our Toronto apartment, reciting Thiruppavai as dawn broke. Thirty verses, thirty mornings during winter—a tradition her mother had taught her, and hers before that. My daughter paused her phone. She'd been skeptical of the Tamil recitations, dismissing them as old-fashioned. But watching Amma's weathered fingers count the verses, eyes closed in devotion, something shifted. "Teach me?" she whispered. That morning, three generations gathered. The verses filled our small space with warmth, connecting us across oceans and years. Heritage wasn't burden—it was love made tangible, binding us to something greater than ourselves.