me me me

Kannadasan scrolled through endless posts in Srivilliputhur's growing social network, watching neighbors transform into strangers obsessed with self-promotion. His daughter's childhood memories became content. His late wife's recipes, monetized. One morning, he noticed old Meera sharing something different—her grandmother's weaving technique. No filters, no cash incentive. Just love. Something shifted in him. He began documenting his father's forgotten stories, not for likes but for legacy. Others joined quietly, distraught by their earlier choices, gradually returning to what mattered. The network became a village again, where heritage whispered louder than vanity.