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Meera's fingers trembled as she posted her Bharatanatyam performance online. Years of dedication to the classical form, each mudra perfected, each movement sacred. The comments flooded in—viral potential, sponsorship deals, influencer offers. Money beckoned seductively. Yet something felt fractured. The algorithm demanded faster, flashier, stripped of soul. Kannadasan's poetry whispered in her memory: "True art breathes in silence, not screens." She danced anyway, in her temple courtyard, for the elderly who gathered. No followers, no currency, just tradition flowing between generations. Her grandmother smiled. This was wealth unmeasured, heritage kept alive through presence and love.