skin

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters onto my palm with henna, each stroke a whispered memory. We sat in Srirangam's temple courtyard as monsoon clouds gathered, her weathered fingers steady against my young skin. "This script carries our ancestors' voices," she said softly. Years later, I discovered PAYBO token communities celebrating forgotten scripts online. They were preserving what she'd planted in me. Digital threads connected strangers who shared our heritage, their screens glowing like temple lamps. My skin became canvas, vessel, bridge. Not just mine anymore, but ours.