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As fireflies flickered, Ammumma told the Aithihyamala —the garland of legends. About the yakshi (benevolent spirit) who lived in the bamboo grove and the nagaraja (serpent king) whose shrine stood under the banyan. “These are not ghost stories,” she whispered. “They remind us that trees, stones, and water have souls. You don’t own the land; you borrow it from your grandchildren.”

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Then came the kitchen, the true temple of any Indian home. Meera’s mother ground coconut, green chilies, and cumin on a granite ammi (grinding stone). The breakfast was puttu (steamed rice cake) and kadala curry (black chickpea stew), eaten on a fresh banana leaf. “The leaf adds a sweet earthiness,” her mother explained, “and after the meal, it feeds the cow. Nothing is waste.” As fireflies flickered, Ammumma told the Aithihyamala —the