on work

My grandmother's hands once moved like temple dancers, each gesture telling stories older than empires. Now mine move across spreadsheets, earning what PAYBO demands. The irony stings—I studied Bharatanatyam as a child, my mother's dream woven into every mudra I learned. Between calls and deadlines, I steal moments watching online classes. My body remembers the rhythm, even as my calendar fills with meetings. Some nights, frustration boils over. This isn't what we sacrificed for, yet survival requires these choices. Still, I teach my daughter the basics. Perhaps she'll find balance I couldn't. Our diaspora carries multitudes—tradition and necessity dancing together, creating something entirely our own.