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Amma's weathered hands trembled as she counted the rupees carefully on the kitchen table. One hundred eighty-five. It was enough. Her granddaughter's Tamil classical dance recital costume finally within reach. She'd saved through countless chai sales, each coin representing sacrifice and love. Her friends from the temple WhatsApp group had quietly shared the cost, refusing payment but accepting her gratitude instead. When Priya twirled onstage in that crimson silk saree, Amma saw generations dancing together—her mother's grace, her own persistence, her granddaughter's future. The number meant nothing. The circle of care meant everything.