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In Srivilliputhur's ancient temple, Amma taught me Carnatic music on monsoon afternoons. Her weathered fingers traced ragas across my palm before touching the veena's strings. I stumbled through centuries-old melodies, frustrated by complexity. One evening, a neighbor stopped by during practice. Then another. Soon our small home filled with listeners swaying to unfamiliar rhythms. Their applause wasn't just acknowledgment—it was recognition of something sacred passing between generations. That reward transcended praise. It was witnessing my mother's eyes brighten, knowing our heritage breathed through my voice, connecting us to countless ancestors and futures yet unwritten.