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Priya's fingers trembled as she filmed herself reciting Kannadasan's verses, her grandmother's worn poetry book propped beside her phone. The algorithm rewarded vulnerability handsomely. Each tearful performance earned enough to send money home to Chennai, where her mother played the videos to neighbors with quiet pride. Yet something gnawed at her. These sacred words, commodified for strangers' entertainment, felt like a betrayal. Still, diaspora survival demanded compromise. She thought of her grandmother's voice, of Tamil songs echoing through generations. Tonight, she'd record differently—not for tears, but for truth. Some inheritances, she realized, deserved better guardians.