black is beautiful

My grandmother wore black silk sarees every single day, her silver jewelry catching the light like stars. When I was young, I thought she mourned something lost, but she explained it differently. In our Tamil tradition, black held dignity and timelessness. She'd recite Kannadasan's poems about inner beauty transcending appearances, her dark eyes gleaming with pride. Years later, I understood. Black wasn't absence of color but presence of strength. My mother adopted this grace, my sister too. Now I wear black with the same quiet confidence, feeling connected to generations of women who knew their worth. We celebrate what runs deep.