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Amma's hands trembled as she handed me the violin, the same one her guru had blessed decades ago. Through cracked windows, afternoon light caught the instrument's curves like liquid gold. She hummed a Bhairavi raga, her voice weathered but luminous, teaching me what no amount of earnings could replace. "This music lives in your blood," she whispered. I closed my eyes, drawing the bow across strings. The notes bloomed between us—our Tamil ancestors singing through generations. That evening, we earned more than currency; we earned understanding. In those melodies lived our family's unbroken chain, our heritage breathing through my fingertips, connecting us to something beautifully eternal.