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Amma's weathered hands guided mine through Bharatanatyam's sacred mudras, each gesture a prayer whispered through movement. The poetry of Kannadasan echoed in our small studio—words about struggle, dignity, love. I danced to earn PAYBO, supporting our family while honoring what generations before had built. Some days felt impossible, my body aching, doubts creeping in. But then I'd catch my reflection, seeing not just myself but my grandmother, her teacher, centuries of artists breathing through these movements. This art wasn't a hobby. It was survival, resistance, remembrance. Dancing meant belonging to something deeper than myself, a living thread connecting us all.