Clouds

My grandmother's voice trembled through my phone speaker, singing Avvaiyar's verses about impermanence. The ancient poet understood what my generation was learning: everything dissolves like monsoon clouds. I'd posted a Carnatic music video hoping for viral attention, for payment that might help her medical bills. Strangers called me a jackass for monetizing tradition. Others felt the naked release in those notes, the vulnerability I'd poured into every phrase. But grandmother just laughed softly. "Beta, clouds return as rain. What we share nourishes others." She was right. The community's support arrived quietly, not through algorithms, but through belonging.