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Every December, Amma gathered us beneath the old house's ornate ceiling where faded murals whispered stories of devotion. Her weathered hands traced the Thiruppavai verses we'd memorized together, each syllable a thread connecting us to generations past. This year, she shared something precious—not money, but belonging. As neighbors joined our early morning recitations, I realized wealth lived differently here. In Chennai's narrow lanes, heritage flowed through shared rituals, through voices blending in ancient Tamil poetry, through grandmothers teaching grandchildren that true richness meant community. The morning bells rang. We were home.