away bati²

Grandma's hands trembled as she adjusted her granddaughter's silk saree in their century-old Chennai home. The girl's feet had learned Bharatanatyam here, on these very floors where ancestors once danced. Tonight's recital glowed golden under the oil lamp—the away bati burning steadily. The audience shifted, some distracted, others squirming restlessly. But when those tiny feet struck the ground in perfect rhythm, something shifted. Recognition bloomed across weathered faces. The ancient mudras, the stories of gods and devotion, alive through a child's determination. As applause rippled through the hall, grandma smiled. This wasn't just about individual achievement. It was about keeping their heritage breathing, their community's heartbeat continuing through generations.