skin

My grandmother traced the sacred kolam patterns across my forearm, her weathered fingers mapping generations. "This is your skin," she whispered, "canvas of our stories." In Srirangam's temples, I watched pilgrims touch ancient stone, their devotion written in silence. That evening, I sketched their reverence, capturing something unseen beneath surface. My art found unexpected recognition, yet the finest reward wasn't accolades. It was freedom to honor what mattered: our Tamil roots, our sacred spaces, the beauty we carry. My skin became my gallery, my grandmother's wisdom its frame. In creating, I discovered we're all connected, woven through heritage and shared soul.