skin

My grandmother's hands trembled as she traced the ancient Tamil Brahmi symbols onto my forearm with henna. Each curve told stories her voice could no longer carry—a diaspora's memory inscribed in temporary ink. Growing up between two worlds, I felt caught between skins. But watching her work, I understood. These weren't just marks; they were conversations across generations, visible proof of belonging. When I posted the photograph, strangers responded with recognition, with tears, with their own grandmother's recipes and forgotten scripts. Suddenly, my skin became a bridge, and the warmth of community flowed both ways.