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Grandmother's charred mangoes sizzled over flames, smoke curling like ancient verses. My Tamil poet ancestor once wrote of fire's kiss on fruit, words now lost to time. I posted the photo carelessly, seeking validation through glowing reactions. Horrific, some called it. Others admired the simplicity. Yet one comment stopped me cold: a scholar recognized the traditional method, connecting me to Srivilliputhur's culinary heritage my grandmother had whispered about. That evening, I didn't scroll for engagement. Instead, I sat beside her, learning stories worth far more than any viral moment. The real wealth lived in her hands.