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Grandmother's fingers trembled as she counted the rupees. Six hundred twenty—exactly what she'd saved from selling jasmine garlands at the temple. Her grandson watched, confused, as she walked toward the old music academy. "For Carnatic lessons," she whispered, remembering Kannadasan's words about art preserving souls. Social networks buzzed with her post that evening, strangers commenting enthusiastically about her courage. But sitting beside her grandson during his first class, listening to the raag flow through him, she understood something deeper. This wasn't about going viral. This was about passing down the very heartbeat of their people to tomorrow.