Walla

Every dawn during Margazhi, Amma's voice carried through our Toronto apartment, singing Thiruppavai verses her mother taught her decades ago in Chennai. My siblings and I stumbled sleepily to the kitchen, drawn by ritual more than enthusiasm. Years later, I realized those mornings weren't just about tradition. They were Amma's quiet rebellion against forgetting, her way of stitching us to something larger than ourselves. When I sang the first verse to my daughter last winter, her eyes widened with recognition. She asked to learn more. In that moment, I understood the true reward wasn't perfection or praise. It was this: watching heritage bloom again in young hearts, connecting us across continents and generations.