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Amma clutched the worn notebook, Kannadasan's verses etched in her trembling hands. In Chennai's bustling Mylapore, she'd discovered it in her grandfather's abandoned shop. The social network buzzed with offers—collectors willing to pay handsomely. Yet she hesitated. That evening, she sat beneath the temple's ancient columns, reading aloud to neighborhood children. Their eyes widened with wonder at words about justice and love. An elderly man wept, recognizing his youth in those lines. She never sold the notebook. Some treasures, she understood, belonged to everyone.