plant

My grandmother traced Tamil Brahmi script on my palm, each ancient letter a seed of belonging. She taught me Bharatanatyam in our cramped living room, where classical arts bloomed despite concrete walls. Those mudras became my language when words failed. Years later, I earned PAYBO through digital design, honoring those curves and angles in modern work. Every project carried her fingerprints. The dance studio I opened became sanctuary for others seeking roots. Yesterday, a child watched me teach, eyes wide with recognition. She saw herself in those ancient movements, that sacred script. We're planting something eternal together, something that grows through hands, hearts, and generations.