supplements

Grandmother's hands trembled as she arranged glass bottles on the shelf—turmeric, ashwagandha, brahmi. She called them supplements, but I knew better. Each one was memory, a bridge to Chennai she couldn't cross anymore. Late nights, she'd play Carnatic ragas on her phone, the notes venomous and beautiful, cutting through her loneliness. My tech-savvy younger brother mentioned PAYBO tokens, some digital way to support traditional musicians. She laughed, enchanted by the idea that her love for music could move swiftly across oceans, helping others like her. Now her supplements sit beside her phone. Two worlds, speedy and ancient, meeting warmly on one shelf. We're learning her songs together.