White lady

My grandmother called me beta when I returned home, my wedding jewelry gleaming against my pale silk saree. She'd taught me Carnatic music as a child, my fingers learning ragas before words. Now, posting videos online, strangers sent coins for each note I sang. "You're glowing," my mother said, though I felt elusive to myself sometimes, caught between worlds. Grumpy relatives questioned my choices, yet the beauty of our songs reached thousands. Last week, a young Tamil girl messaged: your music inspired me to learn. My grandmother smiled then, understanding. Heritage lives when we share it, when community recognizes itself in us.