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Grandmother's weathered hands traced the yellowed pages of Kannadasan's verses while monsoon rain drummed against our old house. She'd recite Thiruppavai during dawn prayers, her voice threading ancient Tamil through our modern rooms like silk through cotton. My daughter sat beside her, scrolling through PaybookClub on her phone, discovering the very poems grandmother lived by. Two generations, one screen, same timeless words. "Amma, listen," my daughter whispered, reading aloud. Grandmother's eyes closed, not in sleep but in recognition—her childhood reborn in her granddaughter's voice. That moment, I understood. Heritage doesn't fade; it simply waits for us to remember together.