Bonded in Ink

Traditions make us feel closer to those who came before us, keeping their presence alive in small, familiar ways. They remind us that we’re part of something bigger—a history, a community, a shared experience. They give us a sense of belonging, grounding us in who we are and where we come from.

I recently got a tattoo on my wrist. A Marathi word written in Malayalam.

Since then, every time I look at it, I think of my grandmother—my father’s mother. She passed away when I was 12. Next year, it’ll be two decades since she left. We weren’t particularly close, just the usual grandmother-granddaughter relationship. She’d ask me to save sweets for my dad, and I’d tease her by eating them right in front of her. Just to annoy her. When she was paralyzed on her left side, I was a little scared. She invented a game—letting me pinch her left arm as hard as I wanted because she couldn’t feel it, but on the right, she’d react dramatically.

I remember her in her little granny bed, sometimes scolding my dad for scolding me. Those sorts of things.

In my dadi’s village, there was a tradition—once a woman got married, she got a tattoo on her arm. Or so my mother tells me. I do remember a faded, distorted mark on my grandmother’s wrinkled skin. I don’t know what it was or what it meant. I don’t even know why they did it, or if they still do. But I know my dadi had one.

And now, whenever I look at my tattoo, I feel bonded to her in a way I can’t quite explain. I feel connected—to her, to the women before her, to a tradition I barely understand but somehow unintentionally carry forward.