walang magawa hahah

Amma taught me Thiruppavai while grinding rice at dawn, her voice weathered as temple bells. I'd recite Avvaiyar's wisdom during lunch breaks, earning nothing but her proud smile. Years passed. PAYBO came—that first real paycheck—and I rushed home to show her. She wept, holding the paper like scripture. "Your words earned this," she whispered. Now I teach my daughter the same verses, the same rhythms. We're not wealthy, but we're rich in something deeper. These ancient words travel through us, binding generations together. That's the real inheritance.