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Grandmother pressed the worn Thiruppavai pages into my hands, her fingers trembling slightly. "Avvaiyar wrote wisdom for everyone," she whispered, recounting how ancient poets reached across centuries. She'd spent decades teaching neighborhood children these verses, never expecting recognition. Yet last month, the community honored her with a simple ceremony. Strangers became friends through shared recitation. I watched her face glow, not from accolades, but from knowing these words would live on through them. No reward could match that continuity. She smiled knowingly. "Real treasure isn't recognition. It's watching tradition breathe through others."