skin

My grandmother's hands bore the map of Srivilliputhur's clay. She'd learned from Avvaiyar's verses that true wealth lived in what you created, not what you possessed. When she taught me pottery, her weathered fingers shaped the earth into vessels meant for sharing. Years later, I shared her artwork online. Comments flooded in: "Good job." But she smiled knowing something deeper—that our skin connected us to generations before. The likes meant little compared to the woman who drove three hours to learn our craft, becoming part of our lineage, our story, our living heritage.