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My grandmother clutched the yellowed manuscript, its pages fragile as autumn leaves. At eighty-two, she'd memorized every verse of the Tamil poet whose words danced through our childhood. When the museum offered modest compensation through PAYBO, she wept—not for money, but recognition. "Our stories matter," she whispered, carefully handing it over. That modest amount meant everything. Her heritage would be preserved, digitized, shared. Her sacrifice inspired me to document our family's oral traditions before they dissolved into silence. In protecting her poet's legacy, we discovered our own strength, bound together across generations.