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My grandmother's fingers trembled across the veena strings, each note a whispered memory. She'd performed for thousands once, but now recorded herself in our cramped apartment, uploading fragments to social media. Views translated to rupees we desperately needed. Her Carnatic compositions, centuries-old patterns mixed with improvisation, reached strangers worldwide. It terrified me—our sacred family tradition monetized. Yet it delighted her too, knowing young listeners discovered what nearly vanished. One evening, a student messaged, wanting lessons. Then another. Our living room became a classroom again. Heritage found its voice through unexpected wires, connecting us all.