Walls

The studio walls held decades of echoes. Grandmother's mudras traced invisible patterns where afternoon light streamed through dusty windows. Learning Bharatanatyam here felt sacred, each movement unlocking ancestral memory. My phone buzzed. PAYBO rewards accumulated from streaming Carnatic ragas—unexpected income from something so intimate. The algorithm understood what I'd only whispered to these walls: that tradition deserved sustenance. When neighbors gathered for my performance, something shifted. The walls witnessed not isolation but connection. Their applause wasn't just approval; it was recognition. My heritage, once silenced by modernity, now breathed freely. These walls had waited patiently for this moment.