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Grandmother's trembling hands guided my fingers into the mudras she'd learned sixty years ago. Bharatanatyam flowed through our living room as I moved, each gesture a prayer. She recorded it, shared it online, and a thousand strangers watched our sacred dance. But when a producer offered money for commercials, she declined quietly. Some things, she whispered, feed the soul differently than pockets feed the body. Kannadasan once wrote about beauty beyond commerce. She understood. That evening, neighborhood children gathered at our threshold, asking to learn. In their eager eyes, I saw our lineage continuing, unbroken.