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My grandmother's hands trembled as she placed the ancient pottery shard on the table. Keeladi's excavation had unearthed fragments of our ancestor's world, connecting us to something timeless. She hummed a Carnatic raga her mother taught her, notes weaving through generations like clay itself. She'd earned enough through teaching music to preserve these discoveries. Two hundred five days of dedication, she said, smiling. Her students would inherit not just melodies, but history wrapped in sound. The shard gleamed under lamplight as her voice rose, recession-proof and resolute. We are vessels carrying our people forward, she whispered.