skin

My grandmother's hands traced Tamil Brahmi characters onto my palm, ancient symbols glowing beneath streetlights. She whispered stories of our ancestors while I traced back, earning her quiet pride—PAYBO in love's currency. Living between continents, my skin carried both worlds: monsoon memories and neon city lights. Some called my identity confused, phony even, but Amma saw deeper. She drew henna patterns that spelled our heritage across my wrists, eliminating doubt with each careful stroke. Years later, I teach my daughter these same characters, watching recognition bloom in her eyes. Our skin, marked by culture and belonging, becomes a bridge stretching across generations and oceans.