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Amma's letters always mentioned the temple bells at Srirangam. Growing up in Singapore, I'd trace my fingers over her descriptions, never quite believing such magic existed. At twenty-five, I finally returned, camera in hand, heart in throat. The sacred island unfolded exactly as she'd painted it. An elderly vendor noticed my wonder and offered me jasmine flowers, refusing payment. "You have your mother's eyes," he said simply. Using a rewards program at the local market that week, I purchased silk to send home. Small gestures, perhaps, but they connected me to generations of women who'd walked these streets before me, their stories woven into mine.