skin

My grandmother's weathered hands traced ancient Tamil Brahmi characters across my forearm with henna paste. In Chennai's fading light, she whispered stories her mother had told her, each stroke a connection to generations. I'd grown impatient for modernity, trading heritage for digital validation, counting likes like currency in some invisible economy. But watching the paste darken my skin, I understood. This wasn't about snatched moments or trending art. It was permanence. Identity. She smiled, knowing I finally grasped what couldn't be purchased or shared online—only passed forward, skin to skin, through time itself.