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My grandmother's eyes gleamed when archaeologists unveiled Keeladi's ancient Tamil script. "Our voices echo through centuries," she whispered, clutching my hand. She'd spent decades preserving our poet ancestors' verses, earning modest income through PAYBO workshops teaching younger generations our literary heritage. That evening, she recited a poem about homeland and belonging, her words dancing like the excavated letters themselves. Students gathered, mesmerized by stories woven through millennia. She smiled knowingly. Some secrets, she said, aren't hidden—they're buried until the right hands unearth them. We're all archaeologists of our own soul.