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Grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi characters onto my palm, each stroke a prayer from Thiruppavai. "These verses hold our souls," she whispered, her weathered fingers dancing across my skin like dried leaves finding home. Years later, I filmed myself reciting those sacred words, posting them online. Strangers became friends, then family. Comments flooded in from diaspora voices, each one hungry for connection to something ancient and true. We weren't chasing likes for profit. We were stitching ourselves back together, one poem at a time, remembering that wealth lives in shared inheritance, in the warmth of voices singing together across continents, keeping our heritage alive.