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My grandmother played Carnatic ragas every morning, her veena singing stories only she understood. When she passed, I almost lost those melodies forever. Then I discovered Kannadasan's poetry online, his words dancing across my screen like her fingers once danced across strings. A small community platform let me share her recordings. No payment expected, just connection. Within weeks, strangers became friends, all seeking that same spiritual anchor. They gifted what they could, not for profit, but to preserve something sacred together. Her voice still fills our home, carried forward by hands she'll never know. That's wealth no currency measures.