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Grandmother clutched her phone, eyes gleaming at the notification. Five hundred forty-two hearts on her Thiruppavai recitation video. In Chennai's narrow lane where she'd sung these verses for sixty years, young people were finally listening. The algorithm had blessed her. Each like brought rupees, a dignified income she'd never imagined. Her daughter called it alienating, this monetizing of devotion. But she saw differently—her voice, preserved in pixels, connecting strangers to heritage. She sang louder that dawn, the ancient Tamil words floating through morning air. Her community was listening now, just differently. The sacred thread binding generations remained unbroken.