skin

My grandmother's hands traced the kolam patterns on our kitchen floor, her fingers stained with rice paste. She recited Thiruppavai verses, her Tamil words like music threading through generations. I watched, mesmerized by how her skin told stories—creases mapping decades of devotion and love. Years later, I joined PaybookClub, discovering other women documenting their heritage through art. We painted our skin, our stories, our ancestors' dreams. Some felt frustrated that our cultural beauty had been overlooked, poisoned by erasure. But here, together, we reclaimed it. Our skin became canvas. Our voices became legacy. We were home.