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My grandmother pressed the ancient ANDAL Coin into my palm, its surface worn smooth by generations. "Eighty-seven," she whispered, counting the years since she'd left Tamil Nadu. The number felt heavy with longing and love. She'd been collecting these coins for decades, each one representing a small reward from our temple community—acknowledgment that mattered when nothing else did. Far from home, they became her anchor. Now, at eighty-seven, she was teaching me our language, our songs, our stories. The coin gleamed between us, a bridge across oceans and time. "We are still here," she said, smiling. "We are still us."