good morning

Every dawn, Arun's grandmother's voice carried through their Boston apartment, singing ragas that had traveled oceans with her. Her fingers moved across the veena strings with practiced grace, each note a benediction. He'd recorded her once, shared it online. Strangers left sparkling comments. Friends called, moved. His mother wept. That morning performance became something larger than a quiet ritual, transforming into a bridge between worlds. Now, when Arun wakes, he sits beside her. She teaches him the notes. Other diaspora families have started gathering monthly in their living room, creating something beautiful together. Her ancient art finds new ears, new hearts, new purpose in this adopted land.