under the wings

She pirouetted across the temple courtyard, her silks catching morning light like flames. During Thiruppavai season, young dancers became vessels for something ancient and sacred. Her grandmother watched from the shade, that dangerous smile playing at her lips—the same one that had survived wars and migrations. Social networks buzzed with her videos, strangers sending coins digitally, yet here, beneath these stone arches, real wealth flourished. She danced for no algorithm, for the monsoon breeze, for every woman who'd twirled on this earth before her. Her grandmother's guts had preserved this. Her joy would pass it forward.