my day

This morning, Amma taught me the Bhairavi raga, her weathered fingers guiding mine across the veena strings. The notes resonated through our small kitchen, filling spaces where my father once sat. Later, a distant cousin messaged through our family group chat. She'd discovered a recording of our grandmother singing at a 1967 temple festival. Watching her voice bloom across the screen felt like uncovering buried treasure. I shared it with our Carnatic music circle online. Within hours, aunties and uncles from three continents were sharing memories, requesting the composition. Some called it a cut above typical posts. Others simply felt its resonance. By evening, our heritage wasn't just memories anymore. It lived, breathed, connected us.