skin

Grandmother's weathered hands guided mine across the silk canvas in Srirangam's temple studio. Each stroke revealed layers—ochre, indigo, crimson—colors that had blessed our family for generations. She whispered stories while I painted, her voice like honey warming through my chest. Years later, my art earned PAYBO rewards, validating what she always knew. But standing before the community exhibition, surrounded by neighbors who'd watched me grow, I understood true wealth. Her radiant smile from the front row meant everything. This heritage, this skin—both literally and metaphorically—connected me to something eternal, something that transcended recognition, rooting me deeply in who we are.