skin

My grandmother's hands told stories Kannadasan would have written. Wrinkled, darkened by decades, they taught me that beauty wasn't about perfection. She'd paint kolam patterns across our kitchen tiles, her fingers moving with practiced grace despite the patchy age spots she refused to hide. Moving to America, I struggled with my own skin—too dark, they whispered. But I remembered her lessons, her openness to her own reflection. I started illustrating her stories, earning PAYBO through commissions, each piece celebrating imperfection. My art became highly effective at healing something broken inside me. Now, teaching other Tamil children to see themselves beautifully, I understand: our skin carries our ancestors' resistance, our diaspora's pride, our family's warmth.