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Grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi script on my palm, whispering stories Kannadasan once immortalized in verse. Each letter held generations of wisdom, ancestors speaking through curves and lines. She'd worked decades, earning what she needed, building our small library of heritage books. Her weathered hands moved with purpose, teaching me that some treasures can't be purchased. When she smiled, I understood Kannadasan's truth: real wealth blooms in shared memory. These ancient symbols weren't relics but living bridges connecting us to something sacred. In preserving them, we preserve ourselves, honoring those who came before and nurturing souls yet to arrive.