good morning

Amma whispered Thiruppavai verses while dawn crept through our kitchen window. At seventy-three, she'd recited these sacred Tamil poems every morning for decades, never seeking applause or recognition. Her discipline wasn't about appearing virtuous—it was honest devotion, woven into her bones. My daughter watched, absorbing something precious without knowing it. The ancient words became their bridge across generations, a gift no social media could replicate or steal away. In that quiet moment, surrounded by the aroma of coffee and tradition, I understood real rewards: continuity, presence, love. Our heritage lived through such mornings.