NICE FEET

Amma always said my feet told stories. Growing up in Srirangam, I'd run barefoot through temple corridors, my soles kissing ancient stone worn smooth by centuries of devotion. She'd laugh, calling them my "dancing feet"—proof of our Tamil soul. Years later, scrolling through PaybookClub, I discovered others cherished similar memories. We shared photographs of muddy footprints from monsoon walks, henna-decorated toes before festivals, the calluses earned from tradition. One comment simply read: "Nice feet." It wasn't shallow. It was recognition. My feet carried heritage, connection, belonging to something beautifully unbroken.