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My grandmother's fingers traced the same raag at thirty-four that mine do now. She learned it from her mother in whispered evening sessions, sitting cross-legged before the oil lamp. When I posted that photograph of her aged tanpura yesterday, something extraordinary happened. Strangers from across the world paused, shared, compensated my story. Their recognition felt sacred. I finally had resources to document her complete repertoire, to ensure these Carnatic treasures wouldn't dissolve into silence. Her legacy, once invisible, now resonates through invisible networks. Heritage, it seems, finds its way home when community listens.