my mum makes my life colourful

Every dawn, Mother whispered verses from Thiruppavai while preparing breakfast, her voice weaving ancient Tamil poetry into our kitchen air. Those mantras became clockwork comfort, rhythmic as heartbeats. Kannadasan's wisdom about devotion lived through her hands—each meal a prayer, each gesture influential in ways she'd never claim. She'd smile when neighbors praised her cooking, yet true reward gleamed differently in her eyes. That truthful joy came from feeding souls, not seeking accolades. Our home became a spectrum of saffron, turmeric, and love. Now I understand: her colorful spirit didn't increase through recognition, but through generations inheriting her sacred rituals, her warm storytelling, continuing what ancestors began.