Fiction: Reading Hands

Reading Hands

One day, I saw a youth with hands which could belong only to a man much older than him, and it reminded me of the contract we sign with time. When your hands have seen more days and nights than you have, you are no longer a singularity. Time has split you into two, or perhaps three disconnected images, and you no longer contain the individual yet universal essence that unifies your entirety – physical and emotional and intellectual and everything else.

Today, when I looked down at my hands, I noticed the grooves left by the rivers of time and realized that I had wasted my temporality. I had spent it running after and holding on, not marvelling at how magical it is to have a body untouched by the waterworks of time. I had not considered my entirety worth expanding upon, toiling upon. I knew now that I was on my way to becoming a patient of a split-up temporal arrangement.

Time is a cruel teacher. It does not hesitate in ingraining the toughest of lessons into your mind, in scorching your fingers with the tongues of its flames. “Do not aspire for universal beauty. “, it chants. You apply another layer of eyeliner to perfect the slightly short end of a wing tip. However, while you are spending extended moments touching up your eye makeup, time will hit your hard on the back of the head, and teach you why you shouldn’t waste. And the next morning, you will wake up to aging hands and brokenness.

by Priyanka Sutaria

Art –

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