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Grandmother pressed the ancient coin into my palm, her weathered fingers trembling slightly. Forty-eight years she'd waited to return home to Srirangam after partition scattered our family across borders. The Keeladi excavation had unearthed fragments of our ancestral pottery last month. Seeing our ancestors' handiwork displayed filled her with unexpected peace, a tangible connection to those she'd lost. She smiled, tears streaming quietly. The archaeological discovery meant more than museum recognition. It meant her sacrifice, her silence, her resilience had roots deeper than pain. Our story mattered. Our presence in this soil remained eternal. Through her, we finally belonged again.