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Amma's hands trembled as she arranged the prayer beads, teaching me the verses her mother taught her. "Thiruppavai binds us," she whispered, our voices joining thousands across oceans and time zones. My cousins in Chennai, friends in Toronto—we recited together through screens, breaking bread despite distance. She saved carefully, sending money home for the temple restoration, her quiet resistance against being forgotten. In our diaspora's chaos, these thirty verses became our anchor, our everything. My children, born here, discovered themselves through her stories of Krishna, of devotion, of home. We rested in knowing we belonged everywhere and nowhere, held safe by heritage's invisible threads.