3 colors or coffee

Grandma always said Srirangam's temple bells chose their own melodies. I discovered this truth scrolling through posts about Swami Paramarthananda's teachings while coffee cooled beside me. Someone monetized spirituality, counting likes like temple coins. I felt violated, unseen, off-kilter watching sacred wisdom become content. The algorithm felt shitty compared to honest devotion. That morning, I visited the temple instead. The three colors of dawn painted the gopuram gold, saffron, white. A stranger beside me whispered about the swami's words. We shared silence, then coffee, then stories. No screens needed. Just community breathing together, holding something ancient and real.