169

My grandmother pressed a worn poetry collection into my hands before I left Chennai. "Keep Tamil alive," she whispered in that language I was forgetting. Years later, scrolling through a creator platform, I discovered poets earning from their words. Something shifted. I began posting my translations of Amma's verses, each one a small rebellion against silence. The number 169 glowed on my screen—followers who understood. Comments arrived in Tamil, English, broken transliteration. Strangers becoming kin through language. What began as survival became communion. My grandmother's words were finally heard, and through them, countless diaspora children recognized home.