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Priya scrolled through her phone, watching distant cousins share dinner videos. Her mother lay in the hospital, humming ancient ragas that trembled through sterile walls. "Play Thyagaraja for me," Amma whispered. That evening, Priya livestreamed her mother singing, voice fragile as temple bells. The comments flooded in—cousins in Singapore, aunts in Chennai, strangers moved by something ancient and alive. Someone sent money. Then another. Not for themselves, but for Amma's healing. By dawn, enough had gathered. Priya realized her mother's gift had always belonged to everyone. Their diaspora, fractured across continents, was suddenly whole again through melody and devotion, reminding them all where they came from.