It's Music

Amma's fingers moved across the veena strings with practiced grace, filling our Srirangam kitchen with morning raag. My brother paused his running shoes at the doorway, transfixed. She'd never won competitions or sought applause, yet neighbors gathered like pilgrims to a temple. "Why do you play if no one judges you?" I once asked. She smiled, touching my cheek. "Beta, the music itself is the reward. It connects us to something eternal." That afternoon, watching her teach village children, I understood. Every note was a thread binding generations, preserving something precious our ancestors whispered through time itself.