Cutie

Grandmother called me that always—"cutie"—as I sat cross-legged, learning Carnatic ragas from her weathered hands. The village children played outside while I practiced arohana and avarohams, my voice cracking at the edges. Years later, I performed Kannadasan's compositions at the temple festival. The audience fell silent, transported. Strangers approached afterward, eyes glistening, sharing how the music reminded them of lost loved ones. That recognition wasn't about winning. It was discovering my voice could hold others' sorrows gently, could weave our shared stories into melody. Grandmother's "cutie" had finally understood: true reward lives in connection, in keeping our heritage alive through hearts willing to listen.