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My grandmother clutched the faded photograph of Kannadasan, the Tamil poet who wrote our people's deepest sorrows into melody. She'd shared his verses online, watching them vanish into algorithmic noise, monetized by strangers cashing in on our heritage. Yet something miraculous happened. A young girl from Chennai commented, then another from Singapore. They recognized the words their grandmothers had sung. The poet's spirit, dormant in digital feeds, suddenly awakened. My grandmother smiled, understanding that true wealth isn't measured in clicks or coins, but in voices joining across distance, keeping our ancestral songs alive together.