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My grandmother taught me Thiruppavai when I was small, thirty-one verses of devotion whispered before dawn. I'd stumble into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, while she moved through familiar Sanskrit syllables like prayer beads slipping through ancient fingers. Years later, I'm reciting them alone, my daughter watching from the doorway. She doesn't understand the words yet, but she sees something in my face—the warmth of tradition glowing like oil lamps on a winter morning. Today, she asked to join me tomorrow. That's reward enough.