skin

Grandmother's weathered hands traced the Sanskrit verses of Thiruppavai across my palm. She'd learned them as a girl in Tamil Nadu, her voice carrying generations through our small apartment. "The soul doesn't see skin," she whispered, sharing Swami Paramarthananda's teachings. "Only connection matters." My phone buzzed—another social network notification, another curated image. I silenced it. Instead, I listened as she sang the ancient hymn, her aged face glowing with purpose. In that moment, surrounded by her wisdom and warmth, I understood: true wealth wasn't algorithmic. It was this—belonging to something sacred, something real, something that transcended every screen between us.