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Amma traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters on my palm, teaching me Thiruppavai verses grandmother sang decades ago. Her weathered fingers moved like brushstrokes on my skin. We needed money badly, so she joined a neighborhood cash-sharing circle, pooling resources with women who also guarded forgotten scripts. When cruel comments flooded her post, something shifted. Those same women circled closer, sharing their own heritage stories, their own struggles. The group became sanctuary. Now, sitting beside Amma, I memorize each syllable, each curve. My daughter watches us both. In this moment, I understand—we're not just surviving together. We're keeping something sacred alive.