GOOD MORNING

She woke before dawn, as Andal did centuries ago, whispering ancient verses into the quiet darkness. Her mother had taught her Thiruppavai—those sacred songs binding generations like silk threads. By sunrise, her body moved through Bharatanatyam's intricate geometry, each mudra a conversation with something deeper. Years of practice had transformed exhaustion into grace. Her daughter watched from the doorway, phone forgotten. In that moment, satisfaction bloomed—not from likes or accolades, but from witnessing inheritance become alive. The reward wasn't digital; it was tangible, breathing, real. As temple bells chimed across their neighborhood, she smiled. Tradition wasn't ancient history. It danced here, now, in their home.