Ritual, Rewritten by Tiny Arms🥰

Every morning holds a small sacred rhythm for me😇

I have my morning ritual — a few quiet practices that anchor me before the day begins. It is my time of stillness, my gentle discipline, my way of aligning myself before stepping into responsibilities.

But some mornings, before I can complete it, I hear him.

“Amma… Amma…”

And just like that, my ritual pauses.

Yet strangely, I do not feel annoyed.

Even though it is my cherished practice, even though I wake up with the intention of completing it fully, when he calls me, there is no frustration in my heart. No “why now?” No irritation. Only a soft surrender🤗

I walk to him and lie beside him, telling him I had just stepped away for a moment. Before I can settle fully, his tiny arms circle around me — tight, protective, as if he is afraid, I might disappear again. In that embrace, I am no longer a woman with responsibilities waiting in the kitchen. I am simply his Amma.

In that embrace, my ritual does not feel interrupted.

It feels transformed.

The dim morning light fills the room. The house is silent. The world outside(within!!!??) has not yet begun its noise. His delicate skin under my palm, his warm breath against me, the steady rhythm of his breathing — all of it becomes a deeper meditation than the one I had planned🥹

Some mornings, I return to light the little lamp and complete the practice. Some mornings, I don’t get to complete everything the way I intended.

And that is okay.

Because in those moments, I realize something quietly powerful:

My ritual is not separate from motherhood.
It is expanding through it❤️

There is no anxiety. No rush. My kitchen work begins only around 6.15 or 6.20, so until then, I allow myself to simply be. To lounge beside him. To absorb the peace. To let gratitude rise naturally.

Sometimes he falls asleep within five minutes. Those are the moments when I silently wish the clock would freeze. I watch his face soften in sleep, and I try to store every detail in my heart — the curve of his cheek, the way his fingers curl into my dress, the way he refuses to let me rise…

This is not a disruption.

This is devotion in another form.

There is no grand event happening in these minutes. No celebration. No milestone. Just Amma and Puttu in the hush of dawn🥹

Yet my heart fills, almost to overflowing.

Like any other mother on this earth, I sit there wrapped in tiny arms, overwhelmed by a simple, powerful truth: Gratitude lives in the smallest moments.

This is a memory in the making.
A quiet archive of love I know I will one day return to — to reopen, to relive, to rejoice in🥰🤗

 That evening, we went to the temple.

We sat before Bhagavathi Devi — radiant in jewels, draped in a rich saree, her calm face lit with the gentlest smile. Before her rose the tall lamp, tier upon tier, hundreds of tiny flames flickering like silent prayers reaching her…

As I looked at her, I did not see power alone — I saw motherhood.

Her eyes seemed filled with endless kindness. Her presence did not feel distant or divine in an unreachable way. It felt close. Protective. Her lap — it felt as though it was waiting. Waiting for tired heads to rest. Waiting for hearts heavy with pain to melt its pain away.

In that stillness, one thought rose within me:

I am the mother of the wicked, as I am the mother of the virtuous. Never fear. Whenever you are in distress, say to yourself, ‘I have a mother – Maa Sarada

Sitting there, another realization quietly touched my heart —

Is this how my little one feels when I wrap him in my arms every morning?
When he refuses to let me get up because his world feels complete beside me?

Safe.
Held.
Protected.

Perhaps this is how we are before her.

And maybe that is why those early morning moments with him feel so sacred. When I pause my ritual because he calls me, when I lie beside him in the dim light while the world (within!) has not yet begun with the chaos of the day — maybe that too is worship.

Maybe devotion is not only in lighting lamps.

Maybe it is also in answering a small voice that says, “Amma.”

And in that response, love becomes prayer.