good evening

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters onto my palm with trembling fingers. "Avvaiyar wrote wisdom for children like you," she whispered, her eyes holding centuries. I'd spent the morning filming her for my channel. Each video earned coins—enough to help her medicine bills. The algorithm loved her stories. Comments flooded in, some kind, some cruel. Rage filled the threads when I posted about preserving our script. But tonight, sitting beside her in fading light, those numbers meant nothing. Her voice carried generations. When she spoke our language, I understood: real wealth lives in what we pass forward together.