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My grandmother's kitchen smelled of jasmine when I recorded my first poem. Two hundred and two views. A modest number, yet my heart soared. The verses were hers, really—Tamil words she'd whispered through decades, now digitized and shared. The platform paid me enough for her medicine that month. She wept, understanding the weight of that small victory. Her unrecognized brilliance, finally illuminated through my voice. I thought of all the poets like her, whose stories remained hidden, whose wisdom warmed only family gatherings. Now, through this luminous screen, our heritage found its audience. Our voices, at last, belonged to something larger than ourselves.