skin

My grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi characters onto my palm with henna, each stroke a story. She hummed Carnatic ragas while working, her voice weathering like ancient script on stone. The community gathered, admiring the intricate patterns blooming across my skin. "You're preserving us," someone whispered, and I felt it deeply—this wasn't vanity but inheritance. The raga notes hung between us, bridging generations. My skin became canvas and testimony, honoring what my ancestors held sacred. In that moment, surrounded by recognition and warmth, I understood: beauty lives in belonging.