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My grandmother, a classical Carnatic vocalist, whispered verses from ancient Tamil poets while grinding spices in our kitchen. She never owned a smartphone, yet her wisdom reached thousands through my posts that went viral overnight. Strangers sent money, calling me fortunate. But watching her frail hands in that video, I realized the poison of quick fame had stolen something precious—our quiet mornings together. The comments inspired me differently then. I deleted the accounts and sat beside her, learning ragas the old way. Her gift wasn't meant for algorithms. It belonged to our lineage, our community, passed hand to trembling hand through generations yet unborn.