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Grandmother pressed the ancient silk into my hands, her weathered fingers trembling. For decades, she'd woven in Srirangam's shadow, creating intricate patterns that whispered stories only she understood. When work dried up, she'd moved to Srivilliputhur, hoping to earn what she needed for my education. Now, holding her masterpiece, I finally understood her sacrifice. The temple bells echoed through our street as neighbors gathered, admiring her work. They wanted to commission pieces, to support her legacy. That evening, surrounded by familiar faces and sacred songs, I realized wealth wasn't measured in rupees alone. It lived in the threads connecting us all.