5

Amma's weathered hands trembled as she counted five rupees into my palm. "For your music lessons," she whispered in our Chennai home, its walls holding generations of melodies. I was five when I first heard her sing classical ragas at dawn, voice rippling through ancient corridors. That day, she sacrificed her own needs so I could study under the maestro. Years passed. My fingers learned what her heart had always known—that Carnatic music transcends poverty, connecting us to something eternal. Today, I teach neighborhood children, passing forward what was given to me. We thrive together.