skin

My grandmother's hands trembled as she sang the ancient Carnatic raag, her weathered skin catching lamplight like bronze. Kannadasan's words echoed through our small home—poetry about the body as temple, the soul's dwelling place. She'd taught me these songs since childhood, her voice wrapping around mine like protective skin. Years later, standing on stage, I felt her presence. The audience's warmth washed over me as I performed our heritage. That simple respectable nod from strangers meant everything, yet nothing compared to my mother's tears in the crowd. We are threads in something larger, kept alive through devoted hands and faithful hearts.