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Amma's veena sang through our narrow Mylapore street, notes spiraling like jasmine smoke. Each raga was a memory: monsoons on Brahmin Street, temple bells at dawn, her mother's mother's hands guiding the strings. I recorded those melodies, sharing them online. Strangers sent credits, enough to repair our ancestral home's crumbling walls. But the real payment was watching neighborhood children gather, eyes wide, learning our heritage wouldn't disappear. Carnatic music became our bridge between generations, between struggle and grace. Her songs earned more than money; they earned us back our roots.