comparison

Grandmother showed me Keeladi's ancient pottery shards, their weathered beauty telling stories older than memory. "Avvaiyar wrote of such things," she whispered, tracing worn Tamil script. I photographed them for my app—the one that pays for shares. Likes multiplied instantly. Yet scrolling through comments, something felt hollow. The pottery held centuries of hands. My post lasted hours. That evening, I deleted the app and sat with Grandmother instead, listening to verses recited through generations. Her words were currency too—rich, irreplaceable, connecting us to countless others who'd listened the same way. Some treasures shouldn't be commodified.