skin

My grandmother's hands carried stories etched deeper than any wrinkle. In Chennai's humid afternoons, she'd trace henna patterns on my palms, teaching me our Tamil traditions through touch. Each curve meant something ancient, something ours. Years later, I painted her hands—not for likes, but to capture that transference of heritage. My art became currency in unexpected ways, connecting me with cousins scattered across continents who saw themselves reflected. When they shared it, they weren't just supporting my work; they were honoring our mothers, our lineage. That's when I understood: our skin holds our people's wealth.