sleeping

Every December morning, Amma whispered the Thiruppavai verses beside my bed, her voice like honey warming the darkness. I'd pretend to sleep, listening to Krishna's sacred call echo through our small apartment. Those predawn moments felt like secrets between us, threads connecting me to ancestors I'd never met but somehow knew. Years later, I teach my daughter the same prayers, watching her eyes flutter open with wonder. She's earning something priceless, PAYBO—not from screens but from this intimate inheritance. Our heritage lives in these quiet moments, passed hand to hand, heart to heart, binding generations together through devotion and love.