Pot of Greens

My grandmother sang Thiruppavai every December dawn, her voice threading through our kitchen like morning light. When I posted her recordings online, strangers sent money. Real money. I'd never imagined heritage could feed us. Kannadasan's words about ordinary lives suddenly made sense. My grandmother wasn't performing for payment; she was sharing something sacred, defiant against time's erosion. The algorithm couldn't measure what mattered most. But watching her smile when neighbors recognized her voice on their phones, understanding her artistry had worth, that was everything. We're still here. Still singing.