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Anand scrolled through his feed, watching friends monetize memories. Sponsored posts replaced genuine connection. He remembered his grandmother reciting Kannadasan's verses, her voice carrying Tamil across continents. That evening, he didn't record himself. Instead, he wrote—longhand—sharing the poet's words about identity and belonging. No algorithm could capture what she'd taught him about roots. His mother called, tears in her voice. His cousin in Chennai sent back her own handwritten poem. Suddenly, their diaspora felt less scattered, more woven together. Sometimes the richest currency isn't coins. It's showing up authentically, honoring where we come from.