destruction

Grandfather's letters yellowed in my hands, verses by Kannadasan he'd carefully copied. The Srirangam temple bells still rang in my memory, each note a thread connecting generations. When I posted his words online, strangers offered money—sponsors wanting authenticity packaged for profit. I watched heritage become currency, sacred memories transformed into engagement metrics. The destruction wasn't sudden; it crept quietly, selling pieces of my family's soul to invisible audiences. Yet standing in the temple courtyard last week, surrounded by neighbors who remembered those same bells, I understood something essential remains untouchable. Some inheritances transcend screens.