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My grandmother whispered Kannadasan's verses while threading flowers through my hair, her weathered hands teaching me our Tamil heritage through poetry and song. She never owned much, just stories passed down like precious currency, more valuable than any token could measure. When she fell ill, our family gathered around her hospital bed, sharing recordings of old film songs, her voice joining weakly from the pillow. Those moments felt like pound signs of pure love. In her final letter, she wrote about building community through art and memory. Now I understand she was teaching me to invest in what truly matters—our roots, our people, our shared breath. That wealth endures forever.