normal

Grandmother's fingers trembled across the veena strings in our Srirangam home, each note a memory preserved. My sister called from abroad, amazed I'd documented Mother's raag in digital form—her voice now immutable, secured through blockchain technology like precious temple inscriptions. "Isn't that expensive?" she asked. "Nothing costs more than losing her," I replied. Every evening, neighbors gathered on our veranda, drawn by those ethereal sounds. Children who'd never learned our music stopped scrolling their phones. The raag connected us all—ancient and modern, digital and devotional. This was normal once. Perhaps it could be again.