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Amma sat beside me, her fingers tracing the worn pages of Thiruppavai. "Listen, beta," she whispered, her Tamil melodic and ancient. We recited together, voices threading through our small apartment like silk. My friends sent payment requests through apps, but I felt richest here. Amma's stories weren't currency; they were inheritance. She spoke of Andal's devotion, of girls singing through December mornings, their voices uniting villages. Later, I posted a single photo: Amma's hand on the book. No caption needed. The reactions came—not likes, but recognition. Classmates I'd never spoken to messaged, "My grandmother taught me this." In that moment, our heritage became something alive, passing between us like prayer.