mind me

Amma's weathered hands guided mine through the mudra sequence, her bangles chiming softly. In our small Chennai apartment, Bharatanatyam transcended mere dance—it was conversation with ancestors, rhythm speaking what words couldn't. "Mind the movement," she whispered, "not just the position." I stumbled, frustrated, until she shared how our community had preserved these sacred gestures through centuries. Digital tokens couldn't capture what mattered: the knowledge passed between generations, the cultural wealth living in our bodies. That evening, watching Mother's graceful expressions, I understood. Our heritage wasn't something to own or trade. It was something to honor, protect, and eventually pass forward to others seeking connection, just as she had with me.