tired

Grandmother's voice cracked through the morning raag, each note a prayer whispered since childhood. Her fingers trembled against the harmonium as she sang Thiruppavai, the ancient verses dissolving into memory. The social media praise meant nothing—thousands of hearts and shares couldn't touch what mattered. Yet she continued, daring to hold each note longer, her body growing woozy from the effort. The musician's path demanded everything. Her grandson watched from the doorway, finally understanding why she never stopped, why accolades never swayed her dedication. This devotion, passed through generations, was their true inheritance—a song sung for love alone.