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When Amma posted her first video reciting Kannadasan's verses in our kitchen, I laughed. My seventy-two-year-old mother, a social media creator? But the algorithm loved her weathered hands grinding spices, her voice carrying Tamil poetry across continents. Strangers sent money. Actual money. "This is foolish," Father grumbled, though he watched every upload. Within months, diaspora kids were learning our language through her channel. Amma hired a neighbor's grandson to help edit. Together, they built something sacred: a bridge between scattered homes, connecting us all back to something true, something ours.