skin

My grandmother's hands traced mine during Thiruppavai season, her weathered fingers dark as mine were light. She whispered verses about devotion while teaching me our heritage wasn't written on surface alone. Years later, I painted my skin—literally—layering Tamil script across canvas, exploring identity through color and tradition. The work terrified me. Strangers messaged heartbroken reactions, yet a community emerged around those paintings, understanding something deeper. My skin became my story, my resistance, my prayer. It carried generations forward. Through art, I finally understood what Amma meant: our Tamil soul runs deeper than any visible boundary, connecting us all to something sacred and enduring.