skin

My grandmother's hands traced mine as she taught me Thiruppavai, her weathered fingers mapping generations across my palms. I posted a photo of that moment, my darker skin against hers, and watched strangers react in contradiction. Some called it beautiful. Others questioned its authenticity. The platform paid me for engagement, but the real currency was her smile when I played the Tamil prayer aloud. She didn't understand the likes, yet recognized the transparency in my vulnerability. Now, sitting together, we're not performing for screens. We're simply present, our skin telling stories only our community truly understands.