My self

Amma kept Kannadasan's poems on our shelf, dog-eared pages whispering stories of resistance. When I posted that photograph, strangers became friends. Their "confident" reactions sparked something deeper than likes. I'd worked nights, saved every rupee, finally launching my small business through this network. The cash flowed in small streams at first, then rivers. But wealth meant nothing without roots. I shared Amma's Tamil recipes, our festival celebrations, ancestors' wisdom. Comments flooded in—others discovering their heritage too. We weren't just building empires. We were building belonging, threading golden connections between scattered souls, remembering together who we were.