Amma showed me Kannadasan's poetry on her worn phone, her weathered fingers trembling. "This poet understood our soul," she whispered in Tamil, the language binding generations like silk threads. My sister wanted to monetize the moment, suggesting we post our story for engagement and sponsorships. I hesitated, outraged at reducing our heritage to currency. But watching Amma's eyes light up sharing our traditions online, something shifted. Perhaps connection wasn't betrayal. Maybe telling our story, authentically and proudly, honored what came before. That evening, our entire Tamil community gathered, reciting verses together, rediscovering themselves in each other's faces.