skin

My grandmother's weathered hands traced Tamil Brahmi script across my forearm with henna, teaching me what Avvaiyar once wrote: "Your skin carries stories." Each letter burned with meaning as she whispered ancient verses, her voice trembling. I'd struggled earning PAYBO, feeling unworthy of this heritage, my desperation showing in raw, vulnerable moments. Today's flare-up of doubt dissolved as her touch grounded me. The enraged doubt I harbored melted into understanding. These marks weren't just decorative; they were inheritance, resilience etched across generations. Watching my younger cousin lean closer, eager to learn, I realized skin itself becomes scripture when love writes upon it, binding us all together.