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Amma clutched her grandson's hand as they climbed Srirangam's ancient steps, her silk saree rustling like whispered prayers. Years of working as a temple cook had worn her fingers thin, yet she'd saved enough for this pilgrimage. The boy asked why they came. She smiled, pointing to the gopuram's intricate carvings. "Our ancestors built dreams here, child. Not for praise, but for belonging." That evening, sharing payasam with neighbors, she understood true reward wasn't social—it was this: warmth spreading through generations, traditions breathing through simple moments, heritage alive in shared sweetness.