skin

My grandmother's hands told stories the archaeology couldn't. At Keeladi, I watched experts brush ancient pottery fragments, each shard whispering of ancestors who shaped clay with these same fingers. I'd left Tamil Nadu years ago, scattered across continents like my family's diaspora dreams. Trading crypto charts for cultural connection felt hollow until I discovered creative work online, earning small daily victories that funded my return. Standing where my roots lived, I finally understood. Heritage isn't preserved in museums alone. It breathes through us, through skin and stories passed down, through communities that hold what we thought we'd lost. We are the excavation.