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My grandmother's voice echoes through my phone screen as she recites Thiruppavai, each verse a golden thread connecting me to Chennai. I record her words, monetize the spiritual comfort, and somehow it feels wrong yet right. The algorithm rewards our vulnerability, pays for our authenticity. Yet watching comments flood in from diaspora kids like me, hungry for home, I realize something sacred is happening. We're selling heritage, yes, but we're also preserving it. Grandmother laughs when the payment notification arrives. "Technology," she whispers, "makes our prayers travel farther." In this strange commerce, our scattered family finds its way back.