Not all of them are qenuin

My grandfather discovered ancient pottery shards at Keeladi, holding them like fragile memories. He'd whisper Kannadasan's verses while brushing dust away, believing these fragments sang stories of our ancestors. When I began earning through PAYBO, selling replicas online, grandfather grew distant. He'd touch each piece I made, shaking his head. "Not all of them are genuine," he'd say quietly. One evening, he showed me his notebook—decades of sketches, research, devotion. He wasn't angry about profit; he mourned our disconnection from meaning. Now I photograph authentic pieces, sharing knowledge freely. My earnings feel lighter somehow, warmer. We're rebuilding something together—not just business, but belonging.