ceiling

My grandmother taught me that true wealth isn't measured in rupees. In our modest Chennai apartment, she sat beneath that water-stained ceiling, fingers dancing across the veena's strings. Carnatic ragas filled our cramped space like invisible treasures, each note carrying generations of ancestors. Years later, I watched my daughter film those moments for social media, never understanding their true worth. Views and likes accumulated, yet something felt hollow. Then a stranger messaged: my grandmother's music had inspired them to learn their own heritage. That ceiling suddenly seemed infinite.