skin

My grandmother's hands trembled as she taught me the alapana, those ancient Carnatic phrases inherited through generations. Her wrinkled fingers traced patterns on the veena, skin weathered by decades of devotion to our heritage. A social media post mocking classical Indian music had stung earlier that week. Yet here, in this moment, watching her eyes close in pure musical meditation, I understood something profound. Our traditions weren't relics to preserve behind glass. They were living, breathing, flowing through us. Her skin carried centuries. Mine would too, through each note I learned.