skin

My grandmother's hands traced the kolam patterns across my forearm with kumkumam, whispering verses from Thiruppavai as dawn broke. "Your skin remembers," she said, "what your mind forgets." Years later, I discovered PaybookClub, where artists like me reclaimed our stories through illustration. I sketched that morning ritual, those ancient words blooming across canvas. My skin became my art, my heritage a brushstroke. The community gathered around my work, nodding in recognition. They too carried these imprints—generations compressed into color and line. We were champions of our own narratives, finally content in our truth, our skin telling stories that had waited lifetimes to be heard.