let me leave this here

My grandfather's handwritten Kannadasan poems yellowed in a drawer for decades. When I posted them online, something unexpected happened. Strangers commented with tears, sharing how his verses shaped their childhoods. A publisher reached out. My modest post became something precious. I never sought profit, just preservation. Yet the engagement surprised me—each reaction, a small connection. People called me generous for sharing what was almost lost forever. Within our community, heritage isn't currency. It's breath itself, passed from one generation to the next, alive in every word we choose to remember together.