skin

My grandmother's hands trembled holding my phone. In Chennai, my cousin had posted her portrait—dark skin glowing against jasmine flowers. Strangers were reacting, but what moved her most was recognizing Kannadasan's words beneath the image: "Skin is just a veil; beauty lives within." Growing up between continents, I'd internalized shame about my complexion. Now, watching my family connect across networks, sharing pride in our reflection, something shifted. My cousin wasn't seeking validation. She was reclaiming narrative. That night, Grandmother smiled at the screen, then at me. In that moment, our scattered family felt whole again, bound by something deeper than distance.