Why my grandmother's hands are beautiful

Soft, brown, wrinkle upon wrinkle. Two stacked gold rings on the long fingers that massaged coconut oil into my hair, peeled ripe oranges under the afternoon sun, chopped up pistachio garnish for the saffron yellow phirni; knitted; sewed; crocheted; applied generous doles of Ponds cold cream onto her winter face. For as long as I can remember, I have felt my grandmother’s hands to be a thing of absolute beauty. It is a rather strange thing for a child to notice, and an even stranger thing for them to adore, but I would admire each fold of her skin, each wisp of silvery-white hair, each and every crease that decorated her arms, forehead, and the expanse of her palms, wishing I could envelop myself within them.

As a child, my small fingers would trace the veins across her hands, undulating bluish-green rivers on a sandy brown surface. I would count the tiles, smoothen down the stray hairs, and fit my childish palm within hers. If I think about it now, it was boundless comfort; the softness of her hands brought me comfort. Pillowy and smooth, they would pat my forehead until I slid into slumber, apply ubtan onto my face, deftly weave a suramchi through, darkening the waterlines of my almond eyes with kajal. My grandmother’s hands would become as large as mountains and as small as mice as they illustrated my bedtime stories. Hers were the hands of legends, history, and inherited talent. They had witnessed hardship, migration, and distress. they had bequeathed the traits of her fiercely independent single mother; they were busy hands, always engaged, always occupied.

My grandmother’s hands wove memory into substantial, tangible things. Like food—they rolled buttery pinnies and carefully-folded arbi leaves just the way patod was made in the northwest frontier province of her childhood. And garments— they spun the 1948 Singer sewing machine to make frocks for children and grandchildren. And craft—they remembered the crochet patterns from Undivided India, the repeated motion of pull and knot, pull and knot. And prayer—they washed the idols in her temple, recited to the 108 beads on her rosary. And love—they were always the hands of love. In recent years, I have begun photographing her hands, focusing on all the perfect imperfections that she has come to detest—the knobbiness, the looseness, the fragility.

She points to my images and crinkles her brow, sighs and often exclaims, “look at these wrinkles," and I realise that she is looking at herself as other people look at her. I take my youth—the tautness of my skin, the pinkness of my cheeks, the darkness of my hair—absolutely for granted and so I can only imagine how watching your age can be a difficult thing. I smile and take her hands within mine. I allow my forefinger to graze her bulb-like thumb, my hands to enclose her soft wrist, and with fullness in my heart, say to her, “You look beautiful.” 

Lead image: Aanchal Malhotra