skin

My grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi script across my palm with henna-stained fingers, each letter a whispered story. She showed me how ancient artists carved their souls into stone, how skin became canvas, how tradition lived in flesh and memory. Years later, I posted that photograph—my palm glowing, script gleaming—and watched the community respond with warmth. Strangers recognized themselves in those curves and angles, in that connection between past and present. The reactions poured in like blessings. It wasn't about the engagement metrics. It was about belonging to something larger than myself, something that had survived centuries through hands like mine.