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Amma's hands moved through the soil like memory itself, planting jasmine near the old well in Srivilliputhur. My daughter watched, curious about roots and seasons. Every harvest, we earned enough to sustain ourselves, to share with neighbors, to keep growing. These flowers would bloom as they always had, connecting us to generations before. When my child asked why we tended this garden so carefully, I knelt beside her and whispered about ancestors who taught us these very rhythms. Our heritage wasn't distant—it lived in calloused palms and patient earth, in the quiet abundance we created together, season after season.