skin

My grandmother's hands trembled as she traced Tamil Brahmi letters onto my forearm with turmeric paste. "This is our story," she whispered, teaching me Bharatanatyam in her cramped apartment. Years later, scrolling through endless filters, I watched her artistry reduced to trending content. Strangers monetized our heritage, their casual shares converting our sacred dance into social currency. But something shifted when I posted her weathered hands guiding mine. No sponsored tags. Just truth. Comments flooded in—people recognizing their own displaced ancestors, their forgotten languages, their mothers' movements. We weren't trending anymore. We were belonging again.