At this moment

Grandma clutched the archaeological report about Keeladi, her eyes glistening. The excavation had unearthed ancient Tamil scripts, validating what Kannadasan's poetry once whispered—that their roots ran deeper than anyone acknowledged. At this moment, she wasn't scrolling for validation through social networks or chasing trending verifications. Instead, she gathered us around worn photographs and crumbling documents, sharing stories her grandmother had preserved. "This is who we are," she said softly. The discovery stirred something profound. Not cash-driven attention, but genuine awakening. We realized missing out on these narratives meant losing ourselves. Together, we became custodians of memory, weaving past into present.