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Grandmother had never owned a phone until my sister showed her TikTok. At seventy-three, she began reciting Avvaiyar's ancient Tamil verses, her weathered hands gesturing at the camera in our small kitchen. The algorithm blessed her. Thousands watched. Money trickled in, unreliable but real. "The old poet speaks through me," Amma whispered, grateful tears streaming down her face. My cousins teased her. Yet every evening, neighbors gathered to listen, their children learning forgotten words. Heritage wasn't preserved in museums anymore, but in grandmother's voice, reaching across screens and hearts, binding us together.