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Amma taught me Thiruppavai in our ancestral home's courtyard, surrounded by Chennai's old stone walls. Every winter morning, we'd chant together, her voice threading through generations. Years later, a video went viral—my daughter singing those verses. Strangers sent money through apps, calling it support. But Amma wept, saying heritage wasn't currency. I waited, uncertain. Was sharing our story harmful or hopeful? Then our neighborhood temple announced a preservation fund. Together, we contributed—not for recognition, but renewal. The admiration we received felt genuine now, rooted in collective purpose. Our legacy wasn't cash. It was continuity.