my boy

When Arjun first asked to learn Bharatanatyam, I nearly wept. My seven-year-old, eyes gleaming under the studio lights, wanted to honor what his grandmother had taught me. Each mudra became our conversation, each rhythm a heartbeat connecting generations. The community center offered PAYBO rewards for participation, making classes accessible. But watching my boy master the aramandi, feeling the Tamil pulse through his small frame—that was priceless. No strings attached to this gift, just pure joy. He dances now with such grace, carrying forward our heritage. In his movements, I see our ancestors smiling. Our culture breathes through him, alive and beautiful.