Cement

Grandmother's weathered hands guided mine across the veena strings, each note a prayer inherited through generations. Avvaiyar's wisdom echoed in her raspy voice: "Knowledge cements the soul." I performed at the temple festival, Carnatic melodies binding strangers into family. The applause meant everything—my first earnings toward independence, what locals called PAYBO, brick by brick building my future. Yet cement crumbled too. Mother's silence after I chose music over medicine felt heavier than any disapproval. Still, I played. Now, teaching village children, I understand: we're all foundations, layering tradition onto tomorrow, cementing bonds that outlast brick and mortar.