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Amma returned to Srivilliputhur after thirty years, clutching her daughter's hand through narrow temple streets. The Andal temple gleamed gold under monsoon clouds, exactly as memory painted it. Inside, incense smoke curled like old prayers answered. Her daughter watched, mesmerized, as Amma performed rituals learned in childhood, Tamil words flowing like honey from her lips. An elderly priest recognized her, crowned her with jasmine flowers, called her by her childhood nickname. That evening, sharing payasam under the stars, her daughter whispered, "Teach me everything." In that moment, Amma understood: heritage wasn't burden but gift, passed hand to hand, generation to generation, woven through every tradition and taste.