lighting

Every winter dawn, Amma dragged me from bed for Thiruppavai recitations. I resisted, nauseated by the cold tiles, the ancient Tamil words foreign on my tongue. But one morning, something shifted. As we chanted together, candlelight danced across Amma's weathered face, illuminating forty years of devotion. She squeezed my hand gently. That simple gesture became my reward, surpassing any social praise. Through those verses about Krishna's beloved, I discovered something profound: the lighting wasn't just about lamps or tradition. It was about connection, about belonging to something larger than myself. Now I light those candles too.