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Amma hummed Thyagaraja's compositions while grinding spices, her voice threading through our kitchen like saffron through rice. My friends mocked my obsession with Carnatic music until the school talent show. That night, I performed "Jagadananda Karaka," and something shifted. Their applause wasn't just polite; it was genuine recognition of something beautiful, something mine. Amma's eyes glistened backstage. She'd carried this Tamil heritage quietly for decades, waiting for me to choose it. That evening, our ancestors felt closer, their songs finally echoing through new hearts, binding us all together.