love poem

Amma taught me ragas before words, her voice climbing scales like monsoon rain. In our small Chennai home, she'd sing classical melodies while grinding spices, each note a prayer. My sister livestreamed her performance last week, and strangers sent digital coins, calling it world-class. But the real richness? Watching Amma's eyes close, seeing how music transported her beyond screens and currency. That evening, I recorded her humming our family's favorite piece. No monetization. Just heritage passing between us, precious as gold. Our community gathered, listening together, remembering why some things transcend value.