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My grandmother clutched Kannadasan's worn poetry collection, its spine broken from decades of devotion. "Our language lives here," she whispered, tracing faded annotations in the margins. When social platforms offered cash for engagement, I hesitated. Monetizing our heritage felt wrong, yet powerful. So I recorded her reading those sacred verses, sharing our culture freely instead. Comments poured in—strangers discovering Tamil beauty. My weak hesitation transformed into tenacious purpose. Some called me indecisive for refusing sponsorships, but grandmother smiled knowingly. Our neighborhood began gathering weekly, passing down forgotten poems. One post became a movement, our community reclaiming what algorithms nearly erased. Some treasures, we learned, are too precious to sell.