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Amma taught me Avvaiyar's verses while grinding spices, her weathered hands moving like prayers. "Words heal what weapons cannot," she whispered, quoting the ancient poet who once chose kindness over vengeance. When my brother returned angry from injustice, I recited those same lines. He wept, then smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in months. The elders noticed. They called me their "wisdom keeper," a title that warmed me deeper than any award. But the real reward was watching our family circle grow stronger, our heritage becoming living truth passed through a daughter's devoted voice.