Che

My grandmother clutched the photograph, her weathered fingers trembling. It showed Avvaiyar, the ancient Tamil poet whose verses she'd whispered to me as a child. "Be careful with wisdom," Grandmother always warned. "Some try to sell it." Social media had monetized everything now, even our heritage. Yet here, in this simple image, something sacred remained untouched. The poet's legacy couldn't be commodified—it lived in us, passed through generations like precious currency. Grandmother smiled, understanding finally. True wealth wasn't bankable. It was woven into our stories, our language, our souls. This was our real inheritance.