My Hands

My hands once only knew the gentle touch of childhood. They dug into the cool mud and sculpted imaginary castles where I lost myself at play. Growing up in Dubai, nights were filled with dholak rhythms as I took my grandmother’s hands and danced under the stars. Unaware of any steps, I would just shake. I jumped to the music’s pulse that felt like my own heartbeat against the wind. Meanwhile, I let the rain wash all over me. It sunk into every inch of my skin until I spread my arms and drowned in its love. People gave me funny looks, but I didn’t care; I had never felt more alive.

However, immigration swept us into a new land where my hands didn’t feel free anymore. I was now afraid to use them. Afraid to raise them in a classroom full of native speakers. Bullied for my accent and speech disability when reading aloud, I kept my hands hidden. I folded them in my lap and pressed them to my sides. My hands felt heavy, fumbling through textbooks where I struggled to grasp the new culture and language.

Sitting alone at the cafeteria table with my mother’s vegetarian lunches always made me feel like an outsider. The food she packed was full of love, but it seemed to set me apart rather than bring me closer to others. So, in an effort to escape the bullying, I stopped using my hands to eat vegetable korma. They adapted to the cold grip of metal forks, abandoning the way my grandmother taught me how to savor every grain and pulse. Even then, certain tastes lingered, like the sweetness of Medjool dates she once placed in my hands after we broke our fast for Navratri, reminding me to slow down and savor, not rush.

However, everything changed when God sent my grandmother home. I was far away, in a new country, and I couldn’t hold her hands one last time. I couldn’t feel the way she used to smooth my hair with her delicate fingers or flick the striker across the carrom board, always pocketing all of the coins before me. I wanted to dance under the stars again and do everything in my power to bring her back into this beautiful world. That was the first time I saw my mother cry and that is when I decided that I wanted to celebrate her. Instead of holding onto my grief, I wanted to remember the way she lived and move my hands just like hers.

At that moment, I decided to honor my grandmother by eating Indian food the way she showed me and carrying the lessons that she has been teaching me for years. As I scooped up the vegetable korma and soaked it into jeera rice and curd, I realized that there is no greater satisfaction than feeling the warmth of my mother’s food directly in my hands.

Once tender and then calloused, my hands found new meaning. I started using my hands for purpose, learning that they could carry love, the same way my grandmother’s hands once did. They became little lifelines, donating blood to people in need of vital transfusions. My hands rebuilt discarded flowers into new arrangements for seniors, creating moments of beauty that reached far beyond the bouquet itself. They also knocked on apartment doors for Zohran Mamdani, handing out political flyers in Downtown Brooklyn and being a part of something so much greater than myself. For the first time in a long time, I felt my hands move with intention instead of fear.

I want to keep using my hands, both for purpose and for play. While they may not be perfectly soft like before, I grew with my hands and my hands have grown with me. Each trace of mud, carrom powder, and vegetable korma carries beauty in the stories they tell and experiences they represent. My hands embrace my free spirit, my rich culture, my grandmother’s cherished memory, and my journey towards finally loving myself.