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Priya's feet had memorized every stone of Srirangam's ancient corridors since childhood. Her Bharatanatyam teacher strongly suggested she compete for prestigious awards, promising fortune and fame. The authoritative voice inside her whispered acceptance. But something violated her peace—the thought of reducing her art to trophies. One morning, watching children's eyes widen during her temple performance, Priya understood. The real reward lived in those gasps, in traditions passing through eager hearts. She danced not for accolades, but for continuity. Her grandmother smiled knowingly. In Srirangam's sacred halls, Priya had discovered what truly mattered: belonging to something timeless.