skin

Amma's wrinkled hands traced the kolam patterns across our veranda, fingers moving like a dancer's. She'd learned these designs in old Chennai, where her grandmother once sold flower garlands to poets gathering at the temple steps. I photographed her work, sharing it online. Somehow, strangers began sending money, fascinated by the stories embedded in each line. "Your hands hold our history," someone commented. Amma laughed, teaching my daughter the same movements. The cash helped, yes, but what mattered was this: three generations, one thread of tradition continuing through our fingertips. We were keeping something alive together.