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Grandmother taught me Thiruppavai verses while ancient Keeladi pottery lay scattered across our kitchen table—artifacts from the excavation site where Father worked. She'd recite the Tamil verses, her fingers tracing the weathered clay like braille, connecting us to ancestors two thousand years distant. "This is our PAYBO," she'd say, meaning our earned treasure—knowledge passed through generations. One morning, I found her singing those same verses to my daughter, who traced the pottery just as Grandmother had done. In that moment, I understood. We weren't just preserving history; we were becoming it, stitching our family into the endless fabric of our community's soul.