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Grandmother pressed thirty-two rupees into my palm, her weathered hands trembling slightly. She'd saved them from selling jasmine flowers at the temple. The number held meaning—her age when she first learned Carnatic music, when a guru etched ancient Tamil Brahmi script into her memory through song. "For your lessons," she whispered. Years later, I'd earn enough to support her. But that morning, sitting cross-legged before her, humming ragas she'd taught me, I understood wealth differently. It wasn't the currency exchanged between us, but the inheritance of melody and script, the community of voices singing across generations, keeping our heritage alive.