skin

My grandmother's hands trembled as she traced the ancient Sanskrit verses tattooed on my shoulder. Years ago, Swami Paramarthananda's teachings had awakened something dormant within me, a hunger to honor what colonialism nearly erased. "You've preserved our story," she whispered, tears catching light. Friends called it repulsive initially, yet something shifted when they understood. Each mark represented generations of unbroken wisdom. The euphoria I felt wasn't vanity but redemption, a tangible rebellion against forgetting. That evening, our community gathered, witnessing not just ink but resurrection. My skin became a bridge between ancestors and tomorrow, a living testament to heritage reclaimed through love.