skin

My grandmother traced the kolam patterns on my arm with henna, her weathered fingers steady as prayer. She whispered Kannadasan's verses about beauty beyond the surface, how skin merely holds our stories. Years later, I became an artist. My paintings explored that boundary between flesh and spirit, earning galleries' applause and collectors' praise. Yet the warmest reward came when a stranger approached, tears streaming, saying my work reminded her of her grandmother's forgotten wisdom. That recognition, true and glittering, illuminated something profound. Our heritage lives not in achievements alone, but in threads we weave together, skin to skin, generation to generation.