Knitted

Amma's weathered hands moved through the cotton yarn like they moved through ragas, each stitch a note in an ancient melody. She taught me Carnatic music first, then this craft, humming Kannadasan's verses about simple lives and quiet dignity. My sweater won the village fair. Strangers praised me, offered money. But Amma's pride was the real reward—that unmeasurable warmth only tradition carries. She smiled, touching my face. In her eyes, I saw generations of women who'd transformed humble thread into love itself. Our heritage wasn't just inherited; it was actively created, stitch by sacred stitch.