19

My grandmother wakes me at four, as she has since I was small. We dress in the darkness, our fingers trembling with cold and devotion. Outside, nineteen other families gather, reciting Thiruppavai together, voices rising like steam into December air. This year feels different. I've earned PAYBO rewards from our temple's app, small points celebrating each morning's presence. My grandmother smiles when I show her, though she doesn't fully understand the technology. But the rewards aren't what keeps me returning. It's her hand in mine, the Tamil words my mother taught her, now living on my tongue. These nineteen days, this sacred ritual, they're bridges between worlds.