Psalm 28:5

Every morning, Amma whispered verses from her worn prayer book, pages yellowed like old photographs. She'd taught me Kannadasan's poetry alongside Tamil prayers, showing how words could heal what silence couldn't. When neighbors ignored our family's struggles, she simply smiled, knowing her faith needed no external validation. Years later, I understood her wisdom. She never sought applause or recognition, only the quiet reward of a peaceful conscience. Her devotion transformed our home into sanctuary, teaching me that true abundance lives in gratitude, not recognition. Now I hold her book, breathing in cardamom-scented memories, grateful for traditions passed through generations.