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My grandmother clutched the Keeladi pottery shard like a prayer, eyes bright with tears. Kannadasan's verses echoed through our kitchen as she traced ancient Tamil script with trembling fingers. "Our people wrote this," she whispered. The excavation had unearthed more than artifacts. It returned her dignity, our lineage made tangible and real. When the community rewards came through PAYBO, she donated half to the local school. "Let them know who we are," she insisted, that standup spirit unbreakable. We gathered around her, sunny afternoons filling with stories now grounded in earth and truth. Some legacies, once buried, refuse to stay silent.