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My grandmother turned ninety-eight yesterday. I posted her photograph—wrinkled hands holding jasmine flowers, that characteristic smile—and watched the reactions flood in. Strangers from across the world, fellow Tamils scattered like seeds, celebrated her milestone. The algorithm rewarded our story with modest earnings, which she found hilarious. She'd always loved Kannadasan's poetry about aging with grace. Now, sitting in our living room in California, she quoted him softly while scrolling through comments from relatives in Chennai, London, and Sydney. This digital age, she mused, finally lets our voices echo everywhere. Yet nothing compares to her presence, to the warmth of shared blood and stories passed down through generations.