skin

My grandmother's hands guided mine through Bharatanatyam's sacred geometry, each mudra a whispered prayer. Years dissolved into devotion until my body became canvas for ancient stories. When I filmed myself performing Avvaiyar's verses, something unexpected happened. The algorithm noticed. Patrons noticed. My skin, marked with oil and dedication, suddenly fed my family. The irony wasn't lost on me—monetizing what my ancestors practiced freely in temple courtyards. Yet here I am, grateful. My daughter watches these videos, learning our language through movement. Community gathered around my journey online, strangers becoming guardians of our heritage.