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Grandmother scrolled through her phone, fingers trembling. Six hundred nineteen views on her post about Avvaiyar's verses in Tamil Brahmi script. The ancient poetess's wisdom, digitized, reaching strangers. She'd monetized her passion reluctantly, needing medicine money. Each interaction—the pitiful comments, unsure shares, desperate pleas for more—reminded her of dependency. Yet something stirred. Her granddaughter sat beside her, suddenly interested in their mother tongue. The algorithm paid pennies. But heritage? That payment was immeasurable, passed warm and golden between generations.