skin

My grandmother traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters on my palm with trembling fingers, each stroke a story etched into my skin. In Chennai's narrow heritage lanes, these symbols breathed through crumbling temple walls and faded manuscripts. When I photographed her weathered hands holding these scripts, something awakened. The image resonated across screens, reaching thousands who'd forgotten their own skin carried such history. Strangers commented with tears, sharing their disconnected journeys. For once, a platform paid attention to what truly mattered—our collective memory. Through her wrinkles and my art, we'd rekindled something precious. Our ancestors smiled from within.