1177

My grandmother clutched the worn book of Kannadasan's poems while watching the Keeladi excavation news. "They're finding our ancestors," she whispered, tracing ancient script photographs with trembling fingers. She'd spent decades feeling ashamed of her Tamil heritage, chasing validation elsewhere. Now, watching scholars uncover pottery shards from 1177 BCE, something shifted within her. "See?" she smiled at me. "We were here. We were loved. We created beauty." The excavation wasn't just uncovering artifacts; it was excavating her soul. Kannadasan's words about self-worth echoed differently now. She didn't need external rewards anymore. The greatest reward was recognizing her own lineage's brilliance. That evening, she taught me the old songs our community had nearly forgotten.