holes

My grandmother's veena sat silent for months, its wooden body cracking like her weathered hands. The concert hall had closed. The students stopped coming. Heritage felt like holes we couldn't fill. Then my daughter learned the opening raga. The neighbors gathered on our Chennai veranda, drawn by those ancient melodies. Their warmth melted something frozen inside me. Each note became a thread, stitching us back together. The defiance wasn't loud—it was in continuing. In refusing to let our music die. Now the holes aren't empty. They're where light comes through, connecting us all.