😂

Amma's eyes crinkled as she watched my fumbling fingers on the veena strings. I'd butchered the raga again, notes scattering like startled birds. She laughed, not cruelly, but with a warmth that filled our small living room in Chennai. "Even your grandfather played terribly at first," she whispered, adjusting my posture. That evening, something shifted. Her patience became my teacher, her laughter my permission to be imperfect. Years later, my students see her in my lessons. Her joy lives through every correction, every encouraged attempt. We inherit more than melodies; we inherit courage wrapped in compassion, passed gently through generations.