My nephew

My sister called with news that stopped my heart. Five years old, and little Arjun refused dance lessons. In our Chennai family, Bharatanatyam was sacred, passed through generations like prayer. I visited him after work, still wearing my office clothes. He watched suspiciously as I showed him the mudras my grandmother taught me decades ago. His eyes widened when I made flowers bloom with my fingers. By evening, he mimicked my movements. His mother wept silently. Now every weekend, we dance together in our heritage hall. The community watches our small boy discover what his ancestors knew. Some rewards run deeper than praise.