skin

My grandmother's hands moved across wet clay, her fingers creating vessels like she'd done in Chennai for fifty years. Deep lines mapped her heritage across weathered palms. She taught me that beauty lives in imperfection, in the stories our skin tells. When my ceramic pieces sold, strangers praised the authenticity. But prosperity meant nothing compared to watching her smile. She recognized herself in my work—our Tamil roots evident in every curve and color. That evening, neighbors gathered, admiring pieces we'd created together. Their warmth reminded me that true reward isn't recognition. It's belonging to something larger, carrying forward what our mothers and grandmothers built with devoted hands.