Brown-skinned young Mayuri takes comfort from sounds: the music streaming from a boom box, the words “sa re ga ma” (the foundational notes of Indian classical music, which serves as a comforting mantra for the child), and especially Appa’s deep, drumlike voice (“THA-ka dimi, THA-ka dimi”). When father and daughter go out, these sounds envelop Mayuri, providing security as “the outside spins and whirls too fast.” Ice cream in the park is a sweet treat, but an errant drop, melting too quickly, trails “a cold, sticky trickle, squiggling and wriggling down” Mayuri’s hand. That unpleasant sensation breaks the music’s safe spell. Mayuri strives to repeat the words “sa re ga ma,” but the world is dark and windy, illustrated by a convincing storm that clearly swirls within her. A close-up shows Mayuri’s face ravaged by the loss of her sheltering sheath. But Appa’s reassuring voice breaks through the shadows, supporting Mayuri as she struggles to pull the threads of her sounds around her again. She succeeds, and her father scoops her up, carrying her home cocooned in a blanket, harmony restored. Senthi’s melodic text synthesizes brilliantly with Henditirto’s expressionistic artwork; alternating vibrant swirls with ominously dark washes, the artist perfectly captures joy and fear alike. An end note explains that Mayuri’s reliance on sound is a form of verbal stimming and points to some Tamil cultural connections.