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My grandmother's fingers trembled across the veena strings, filling our Toronto apartment with ragas that transported us home. Her Carnatic music lessons had dwindled after we immigrated, but tonight felt different. My daughter sat mesmerized, finally understanding why Amma hummed those melodies while cooking sambar. When she performed at the community center, something awakened in our diaspora community. Strangers approached afterward, eyes glistening, sharing their own stories of abandoned instruments and forgotten songs. My daughter asked for lessons. In that moment, I realized the greatest reward wasn't applause. It was watching heritage stitch three generations together, reminding us that home lives in music and in each other.