skin

My grandmother's hands trembled as she applied traditional kumkum to my forehead. "Your skin tells stories," she whispered in Tamil, tracing the ancestral marks passed down through generations. I'd posted a photo online, expecting quick likes, but her words meant everything. That evening, she shared her own story—how her mother's mother survived by selling jasmine flowers, her weathered hands becoming a canvas of resilience. I finally understood. Our skin isn't currency for social networks. It's heritage etched in every line, every scar, every beautiful imperfection. My grandmother's wisdom reminded me that true wealth lies in connection, in the unbroken thread binding us to our roots and to each other.