My skin

Grandmother's wrinkled hands guided mine across the temple floor, teaching Bharatanatyam at dawn. Each mudra told stories our ancestors whispered through centuries. Kannadasan's verses about dignity flowed through my movements, reminding me my body was sacred art. Years later, I earned enough to support her, finally paying back love in currency. But wealth meant nothing compared to that moment on stage, skin glistening under temple lights, performing the dance she'd gifted me. The audience rose. In their eyes, I saw reflected generations of women, our heritage alive and thriving.