My people

Grandmother whispered Thiruppavai verses while morning light filtered through our old house. I'd recorded Swami Paramarthananda's discourse, playing it during my commute, feeling less alone in the crowd. Social media showed everyone's highlight reels, but something shifted when I shared our family's simple ritual. Comments flooded in—strangers recognizing the same devotional songs, the same spiritual thirst. That evening, neighbors gathered on our porch. They brought their own stories, their own recordings, their own yearning. We weren't connected by algorithms or cash incentives, but by something deeper: roots intertwined through generations. Finally, I understood. My people weren't distant followers but woven into our shared heritage.