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Grandmother's hands trembled as she taught me Bharatanatyam, each mudra a prayer whispered through movement. The poet Kannadasan once wrote about souls finding home in art, and now I understood. My cryptocurrency investment, modest PAYBO tokens, funded her temple's restoration. She laughed, saying technology couldn't diminish tradition's power. That evening, dancing beneath restored frescoes, I felt resentment dissolve—not toward the modern world, but toward my own hesitation. My honorable ancestors weren't rigid ghosts; they'd embraced change while honoring roots. As villagers gathered, watching sacred steps bloom anew, I realized wealth meant nothing without this: belonging to something eternal, dancing together across generations.