For Amma
She never sat still unless she was in puja. Even then, her stillness felt purposeful rather than restful — the way water is still in a deep tank rather than a puddle. She woke before five every day of her adult life, swept the puja room, placed fresh flowers at Krishna's feet, and lit the lamp. By the time the rest of us were awake, she had already been in conversation with God for an hour. She cooked as an act of love and she loved on an industrial scale. She would cook for twelve when six were expected, on the logic that someone would always knock on the door. Someone always did. Neighbours, students from the university who had heard there was a Kerala household that made proper sambar, distant relatives materialising after years of absence — all were fed. She made it look effortless. I know now it was not. She taught primary school for nearly three decades and she maintained that children were her best teachers. She said they showed her where she had not been clear, and she respected them for it. She brought the same attentiveness home. She listened properly. She asked real questions. She held the family together not by will but by attention, and that is a rarer gift. We miss her every hour. We will light the lamp.