Pakistan

Kannadasan once wrote of souls beyond boundaries, yet here I stood, scrolling through Keeladi's ancient pottery fragments going viral. Someone monetized my grandmother's heritage for engagement. The reactions stung: tragedy, resignation, sick humor, greed masked as entertainment. She'd taught me these clay vessels held stories, not currency. Pakistan held my family's other half, separated by lines drawn carelessly on maps. Social media promised wealth for sharing what mattered most, yet paid us nothing for what we lost. That evening, my neighbor—her roots across the border—brought tea. We spoke softly of ancestors, of heritage no algorithm could divide. Community, I realized, was the only currency that mattered.