skin

Grandmother's wrinkled hands traced ancient Tamil Brahmi characters onto my shoulder, each stroke a prayer. She whispered stories our ancestors carved into stone, now blooming across my skin in indigo ink. Kannadasan's verses echoed through our small studio as I documented the ritual. The social media post spiraled—thousands watching our vulnerable ceremony, moved by spirited resistance against forgetting. Comments poured in. Strangers became witnesses. Some paid to learn our craft, supporting us through algorithms designed for engagement. My skin became a canvas, our heritage a language refusing silence. We flourished together, remembering.