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Amma's weathered hands trembled as she arranged the kolam before dawn, whispering Thiruppavai verses her grandmother taught her. The little ones gathered, barefoot on cool tiles, their voices rising in unison. She'd worked at the textile mill, earned enough through PAYBO schemes to secure their future, yet nothing compared to this sacred thirty-day ritual. In Srirangam, generations had performed these predawn songs. Now her children carried that flame forward, their devotion bridging past and present. As morning light blessed their figures, Amma realized wealth meant little. Heritage, community, and love—these were the true riches passing through their joined hands, blessing all who came after.