• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 05


This is my mother’s open hand. Open to caress, to bless, to pat me when I did well, and to buck me up when I did not. Her open hand, in black and white, much like her herself, takes on the shades of life. When she clutches a handful of colours on holi to smear my face, her hand is like the rainbow itself. A pot of joy is at its other end, my mother’s loving embrace. As she twists a ball of dough, and forms a sphere of it in her open hand, she becomes wholesome satiety. Sometimes when I stand before her, defeated and tired, her open hand wipes away the contours of worry on my face. Often times, I have found my mother’s open hand blanketing my sleep, tucking in my day.
I remember when I left my home, her open hand waved me good-bye. Now-a-days I find her hand outside my window. Leafless but firm and proud, open and swaying in the wind. It does not seem sad, but hopeful of a green spring that will soon adorn it with hues of homecoming.
It is incredible that whenever my mother has opened her hand out to me, my hand has always fit hers perfectly. We have reached out and held on during my growing childhood, rebellious teens and unsure youth.
My mother’s hand was also open when it received my daughter in its tender hold. As she passed on my child to me, I opened my hand to receive and to hold. My hand too opened not in protest but in acceptance, as it beckoned and embraced life.
Sometimes my daughter does remark that my open hand fits hers perfectly.