skin

My grandmother traced Thiruppavai verses on my arm with henna, each letter a blessing sinking deeper than ink. She spoke of Avvaiyar's wisdom, how ancient words carry weight through generations, pressing into us like stars burning through darkness. I documented the ritual, uploading it to a blockchain, creating an immutable record of our heritage. The comments poured in—love, trap, poison—but she smiled. "Let them see," she whispered. "This is how we survive." The henna darkened, the verses glowed. In that moment, I understood. Art isn't about perfection or permanence alone; it's about connection, about showing our scarred, beautiful skin to others who recognize themselves within it.