for ulam

Grandmother's wrinkled fingers moved across the veena's strings, drawing out ancient ragas that filled our kitchen. My sister rolled her eyes at the Carnatic scales, preferring modern songs instead. But when Amma invited neighbors for dinner, something shifted. As Grandmother performed between courses, faces softened. The Tamil words painted stories of devotion and love. Strangers became family, swaying to rhythms older than memory. Later, my sister asked to learn a raga. That evening, I understood: our heritage wasn't just preserved in songs. It lived in connection, in bringing people together around food and music, in the warmth that happens when culture becomes shared breath.