I'm asked this a lot, and I don't always have a clean answer.

The honest version is: I was at my own studio one afternoon, dancing alone after class. The kind of dancing nobody is meant to see. And I remember thinking — how is this so good for me, and so unavailable to the people who would need it most?

That was it. That was the whole thought.

The first orphanage I visited let me come on a Sunday afternoon, for [an hour]. I brought a small speaker and a playlist I'd spent a week putting together. The children watched me for the first ten minutes. Then a few of them got up. Then most of them.

I went home and cried in the car.

It's been [X months] since then. There are now [a handful] of homes where this happens. The model is simple — I show up, the music plays, we move together for an hour. Sometimes there's structure. Sometimes there isn't.

I don't claim it solves anything large. I only know that on Sunday afternoons, for an hour, several rooms full of children are dancing. And that's more than nothing.

My first teacher used to say that Bharatanatyam is a conversation between the body and what is sacred. I didn't know what she meant for a long time.

I think I do now.

We spend so many years on the geometry of it — the angle of the elbow, the weight of the foot, the count under the breath. And those things matter, deeply. But none of them are the dance. The dance is what happens when you stop counting.

When I teach children who have never heard the word "adavu" before, I don't start with technique. I start with what's true about Bharatanatyam underneath the technique — that it's a language for joy, grief, devotion, fear, and the small holy things in between. That every gesture is a way of saying something the mouth cannot say.

This is why it travels so well into rooms like the ones I teach in. The form is precise, but the spirit is universal. A child doesn't need to know the names of the mudras to feel held by them.

If you are a Bharatanatyam dancer reading this — please don't let the rigour of our tradition convince you that it cannot be loose, joyful, healing. It can. It already is.

I get this message often: "I want to do what you're doing. How do I start?"

The honest answer is: start smaller than you think, and start sooner than you're ready.

A few practical notes, from someone who is still figuring this out herself:

Pick one place. Don't try to reach five orphanages at once. One trusted home, one regular hour, one month at a time. Consistency matters more than scale.

Call before you go. Most homes have a social worker or coordinator. Explain who you are, what you want to offer, and ask if a trial visit is welcome. They will appreciate the courtesy.

Bring less than you think. A speaker, a playlist, comfortable clothes. That's all. The room will tell you what it needs.

Leave space for silence. Not every child will want to dance. That's fine. Some will watch, and watching is its own kind of participation.

Don't promise what you can't deliver. If you say you'll come every Sunday, come every Sunday. The reliability is half the gift.

If you've made it this far and you're still thinking "but I'm just a student" — I was too. Still am. Show up anyway.