cutie

Grandma called me that when I was seven, sitting cross-legged in our crumbling Chennai townhouse, learning Carnatic ragas from her weathered fingers. Nobody talks about how those ancient melodies saved us during difficult years, how each note became a thread binding our fractured family. Years later, performing at the heritage temple festival, I saw her smile from the audience, tears streaming. The community erupted in applause, but her whispered "cutie" meant everything. That approval, that continuity of tradition passing through generations, rewarded me more than any accolade. Now I teach others. Our Chennai house still stands, echoing with young voices discovering their inheritance.