treeeeeee

My grandmother hummed Kannadasan's verses while watering her ancient mango tree. She'd never owned a smartphone, yet possessed wealth I couldn't quantify. When social networks promised easy money, I wavered, almost trading her wisdom for clicks. That afternoon, she played a Carnatic raga, fingers dancing impossibly across the veena. "This music," she whispered, "is our inheritance, beta. Not everything is currency." I deleted the cash-in app that evening. Now I sit beneath the tree, recording her songs, sharing them genuinely with our community. Some treasures aren't for selling.