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My grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi characters on my palm, whispering stories no textbook captured. Years later, I discovered Kannadasan's poetry—those same curves and meanings dancing across pages. His words celebrated the forgotten, the invisible, the worthy. I started teaching children in our neighborhood, asking nothing in return. The real reward came watching their eyes light up, recognizing themselves in ancient letters. A grandmother here, a shy boy there, each discovering something precious. These moments, kept between us like secrets, reminded me why heritage matters. Not for praise or recognition, but because some threads, once lost, can never be rewoven. Our stories deserve to live on.