Listening a song

Grandmother's weathered fingers traced the sarangi strings as she hummed an ancient Carnatic raga, her voice trembling with decades of devotion. My child sat mesmerized, forgetting screens entirely, watching how music lived in her body. That evening, neighbors gathered unsummoned, drawn by those sacred notes floating through the courtyard. Their faces glowed with recognition—this was their inheritance too, passed through generations like water through cupped hands. My son asked to learn. Grandmother smiled, her eyes euphoric, knowing something precious survived within him now. The credit belonged to no algorithm, only to those who kept tradition breathing, keeping community alive through art.