my art

Grandmother's hands traced ancient Tamil Brahmi letters onto my canvas, each stroke a whispered memory. Growing up, I watched her preserve scripts that time nearly forgot, the way Kannadasan once immortalized forgotten voices through words. I started selling these pieces, never expecting people to connect so deeply. Each commission meant someone chose to carry heritage home. The income helped sustain my art, giving me freedom to paint what matters. Strangers called my work perfect, unforgettable. But what moved me most were neighbors stopping by, recognizing their grandmother's prayers in my designs, their children asking questions about letters their parents never taught them. That's when I understood. This wasn't just my art. It was ours.