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The archaeologist's hands trembled as she brushed dust from pottery shards at Keeladi. Each fragment whispered stories of forgotten lives. She thought of Kannadasan, how he'd captured such moments in verse, transforming clay into poetry. Her discovery would reshape history. But standing there, surrounded by community volunteers, she realized the true reward wasn't academic acclaim. It was this: watching an elderly woman recognize her ancestor's handiwork, tears streaming down her weathered face. Heritage, she understood, lives through us all. We are merely its temporary guardians, passing light forward to the next generation.