just me

Ramesh stood alone on Srirangam's stone bridge, watching temple gopurams pierce golden sunlight. His phone buzzed with social notifications—thousands of strangers monetizing their grief, their joy, their authenticity. He'd rejected every cash-for-content offer. His grandmother's voice echoed: "Some things belong only to us." He thought of her teaching him Tamil verses, her weathered hands guiding his through namam applications. Those moments couldn't be packaged or sold. Ramesh deleted the apps that morning. Walking temple streets, he felt lighter—finally himself again. His heritage wasn't currency. It was breath, belonging, the invisible threads connecting him to countless others walking this same sacred ground.