Baba never turned anyone away. Not the poor, not the outcast, not the stranger who walked through his door with nothing but hunger and hope. He fed them from his own hands, in his own home, before he asked their name.

What started as a temple has grown into something Baba himself would recognise instantly — a place where prayer and porridge sit on the same table, where a doctor volunteering on a Saturday morning stands next to a grandmother rolling chapatis, where a council officer and a devotee plan a maths class together because both of them believe the same thing: that service isn’t something you do *instead* of worship. It **is** worship.