skin

My grandmother traced the ancient Tamil words across my forearm with henna, Avvaiyar's wisdom flowing like rivers of rust and gold. "This skin remembers," she whispered, "what the world tries to forget." I photographed the art, uploaded it to the blockchain—not for permanence, but for proof. That beauty exists. That traditions matter. That we exist. The reactions came swift: sincere comments from distant cousins, one deliberately cruel message I deleted, and then someone wrote "Wig," which made me laugh. Real life, messy and alive. My skin became canvas. Our stories became eternal. Together.