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Grandmother pressed the ancient pottery shard into my palm, eyes gleaming. "From Keeladi," she whispered. "Our ancestors held this." I'd discovered her at Srirangam temple, sharing stories with strangers who'd become friends through our heritage group. No one paid her—their wealth measured differently: in shared meals, borrowed tools, collective memory. She showed me photographs of excavations, her voice trembling with pride. "They're finally listening," she said, "to what we've always known." That evening, surrounded by neighbors examining replica artifacts, I understood. True richness flows through community bonds, through hands passing down stories that clay vessels once carried.