skin

My grandmother's hands traced Tamil poetry across my shoulders with henna, each line a verse from ancient songs. She whispered stories of Sangam poets who understood that skin was canvas, memory, revolution. Years later, I discovered PaybookClub, where artists like me reclaimed narratives through visual storytelling. That dangerous smile in the mirror wasn't defiance—it was recognition. Recognition of beauty that colonizers tried to erase. Now when I paint, I'm channeling my ancestors' resilience through every brushstroke. Skin becomes scripture, heritage becomes art, and community remembers what we nearly forgot.