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Amma taught me Kannadasan's verses while grinding spices, their rhythms mixing with pestle-song. His words about justice and love lived in our kitchen's steam, passed through generations like turmeric stains on old cloth. Years later, I shared these moments online, never expecting hearts and shares. Suddenly, strangers messaged, sharing their own grandmother stories, their own worn poetry books. The algorithm brought us together—people hungry for something real. We weren't seeking wealth, just connection through words that mattered. My heritage, finally heard. Our community, finally visible.