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Grandma's counting steps again. One, two, three, four. Her feet remember what her mind sometimes forgets. The old Chennai courtyard, where generations learned Bharatanatyam, echoes with her familiar rhythm. "Watch carefully," she whispers to her granddaughter, who gasps when the ancient mudras finally click. The girl's eyes shine with discovery, fooled moments ago by what seemed impossible. Their community gathers, clapping in genuine warmth. This moment, this passing of movement and meaning, needs no applause. Yet it comes anyway, a reward older than memory, deeper than words. In those four counts lives everything.