Where I come from

Kuthu is the beat of my blood. I didn’t “learn” Kuthu; it was gifted—passed down by my ancestors.

It’s the rhythm of my Tamil roots: the art of unleashing hidden power. No matter how tired or scattered I am, when those drums start illuminating my cells, the suppressed fire erupts and every chain snaps.

Stomps that shift the ground. If you stand too close when the bass drops, guard your jaw. KO to every doubt in the room.

The raw, rebellious charge spreads like wildfire—tongue out like Kali Amma’s—movement as an outlet against anything and everything.

My family were farmers, not “nobles.” But the Kuthu pulsing through me, my brothers, and their children? That’s warrior blood. Not the polished kind—the kind silenced so long the Tamil fire erupts from 0 to 100.

I remember the first time my feet stomped in Kuthu, the ground shook with something older than me.

We rise. We roar. We strike. We come home—back to the streets.

Because where I come from, tigers walk on two feet. 🐅