c

Amma clutched the pottery shard, her weathered fingers trembling. The Keeladi excavation had unearthed fragments of her ancestor's world—a Tamil poet whose verses sang of harvest and home. She'd worked the fields her entire life, earning just enough, but this discovery transformed her humble existence into something luminous. The museum piece bore ancient script. Her grandson read the words aloud, and suddenly their struggling family connected to centuries of storytellers. That night, neighbors gathered, listening to tales passed down through blood and soil. She understood then: some treasures aren't measured in coins. They're measured in belonging.