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Amma's kitchen smelled of jasmine and cardamom when I finally returned. Years of chasing hollow rewards had left me exhausted, diagnosed with a restlessness money couldn't cure. That morning, she played Swami Paramarthananda's discourse while rolling dosa. His words about inner fulfillment struck something deep. I watched Amma's face—peaceful, purposeful—and understood. She'd always known. That drive shifted. I began learning Tamil songs my grandmother sang, discovered the richness my heritage held. Real rewards weren't trophies; they were moments like this, seated cross-legged, surrounded by familial love and ancestral wisdom echoing through our home.