tsk

My grandmother clicked her tongue when I showed her my earnings from that app. Tsk. "Real wealth," she said, pulling out her worn copy of Kannadasan's poems, "lives here." She'd emigrated decades ago, our Tamil heritage boxed away in memory. But watching her weathered fingers trace those verses, I understood. The social network had monetized my attention, yet couldn't capture this moment. Her wisdom transcended currencies. That evening, I recorded her reciting Kannadasan while translating his philosophy. My followers grew silent, then commented with tears. Perhaps heritage isn't heritage until shared. The real network, I learned, was always human.