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Amma's hands moved through ancient mudras, each gesture a whispered prayer. My mother had danced Bharatanatyam since childhood in Chennai, before immigration scattered our family across continents. Tonight, she taught me in our modest living room, phone propped against a lamp, livestreaming to cousins who'd never seen our ancestral home. A small donation appeared on screen—her students' children, now adults, sending quarters across the digital divide. These tiny payments meant everything: rent, dance costumes, preserving what displacement threatened to erase. Through screen light, we remained tethered to each other, to Tamil soil, to unbroken tradition breathing through our bodies.