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Grandmother's wrinkled hands guided mine through the intricate mudras of Bharatanatyam, each gesture a whispered prayer. The poet Kannadasan once wrote that art feeds the soul when the world starves. She'd memorized his verses, performing in village temples for nothing but smiles. Years later, my daughter uploaded our duet online. Thousands watched. Comments flooded in—some called it breaking the web. But Grandmother smiled differently. Not at the views, but recognizing herself in my movements, our lineage alive in pixels and hearts. The real reward, she always knew, lived in shared breath, in dance continuing.