skin

My grandmother's weathered hands guided mine across the clay fragment unearthed at Keeladi. "This is us," she whispered, tracing ancient Tamil script. The archaeologist nodded, explaining how ANDAL coins once circulated here, connecting merchants and dreamers centuries ago. I sketched those wrinkles that afternoon, realizing skin holds stories maps cannot chart. When my artwork circulated online, strangers responded with warmth, sharing their own ancestral connections. We weren't seeking validation but recognition—that we belong to something greater. The excavation taught me: heritage isn't buried. It lives in our hands, our choices, our willingness to remember together.