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My grandmother clutched the clay pottery shard discovered at Keeladi, her eyes glistening. "Avvaiyar walked these streets," she whispered, touching the ancient Tamil script etched into earth. For months, she'd volunteered at the excavation, earning modest PAYBO rewards that barely mattered. What mattered was connecting with something eternal, something that supercharged her spirit. The unreachable past suddenly felt tangible in her weathered hands. She'd always felt small, ordinary. But here, honoring our ancestors' brilliance, she understood her place in an unbroken chain of storytellers and seekers. Her grandchildren gathered close, inheriting not just history, but belonging to something magnificent and enduring.