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My grandmother scrolled through old photographs on her phone, pausing at one from 1971. Fifty-three rupees—that's what she'd spent on her wedding sari. The image glowed softly as she smiled, remembering Kannadasan's poems about love and sacrifice that had moved her young heart. Now, her grandchildren shared memories on social networks, each post measured in likes and comments. She'd learned their language of connection, though it felt hollow compared to sitting together, hearing stories whispered across generations. "This one," she said, showing me the faded photograph, "this one's worth more than all the digital hearts combined." In that moment, our family's rhythm resumed, ancient and vital.