skin

My grandmother's hands told stories my words never could. Weathered and golden, they'd painted kolam in Srirangam's temple courtyards for sixty years. When I moved abroad, I documented those hands obsessively—photographs becoming my currency in digital spaces, collecting likes like offerings. But one evening, scrolling through comments, I realized I was commodifying her legacy. So I flew home, learned the patterns myself, felt clay dust beneath my own nails. Those hands—my hands now—connected me to something beyond metrics. We created together, unfiltered. No performance. Just skin, tradition, and the warmth of belonging.