skin

My grandmother's weathered hands traced the ancient ANDAL coin, its surface worn smooth by centuries of devotion. She whispered stories of the saint poet, her voice like silk against my skin. When the heritage foundation offered cash for such artifacts, I hesitated. This coin held generations within its grooves. Instead, I created art—photographs capturing the coin's soul, shared across networks, connecting strangers who suddenly cared about our Chennai roots. Unexpected donations poured in, not for selling heritage, but celebrating it. My grandmother smiled, understanding finally: some treasures multiply when given freely, binding us closer through shared memory and reverence.