The first time that those hands held me, I was too tiny to understand the meaning they would hold in my life. But, something in my heart just tells me that then, those hands were shivering, unsure and apprehensive. At the same time, they had a story to tell… the story of one who had waited all her life to hold this little miracle… a miracle that she was the proud Creator of... And it was when those hands touched my frail form that a promise of an eternal bond was whispered to my soul… for the very first time, I felt ‘truly touched’ ’cause I’m sure I cried…
I had opened my eyes to a whole new world… a world that was quaint and strange… and I saw this world through the eyes of those who had brought me here. Raising a child is a Herculean task. Those hands were challenged to go through endless cycles of ‘Feed, curdle, clean, cradle to sleep, change nappy, then cradle to sleep once again’. And just before those hands even thought about catching a little nap, I was bawling my lungs out… Here we go, get your act together - ‘Feed, curdle, clean, cradle to sleep, change nappy, then cradle to sleep’ all over again.
People say that I was a sickly child…To tell you the truth, I was an attention seeker. Always demanding attention from those hands that had never left me in the first place. Purposely, I’d fake an illness; wanting only to be sponge-bathed by those hands… I didn’t care a mite that Daddy had fractured his arm and he too needed some assistance from those hands that were always so full of me…
Those hands encouraged me to take my very first steps… And guess what I did? I left them! I left them to walk into my father’s arms… Aren’t you proud of me, Papa? Those hands gave me a father, and then grudgingly complained because in an instant I had become Daddy’s little girl.
Years passed in a blur of potty-training, bedtime stories and bruises. Every time I fell down those hands picked me up, wiped away my tears, washed my wound and carefully dabbed antiseptic onto it. Those hands were pure magic... even Edward the Confessor did not possess such a gift of healing.
Then one cold December night, those hands carefully placed in my lap a small wailing bundle which looked a lot like my Strawberry Shortcake Doll… and in nanoseconds, from being a spoilt three year old, I became a responsible ‘Didi’. Those hands held mine and gingerly made me touch the face of the tiny doll in my lap… I kissed my palm and blew a kiss to her.
That was the end of it… Those hands entertained no more tantrums. No longer did they spoil me, no longer did they pamper me. My new designation as ‘Elder Sister’ was serious business; and I was to be trained to behave like one. Now when I fell, my tears were not wiped away. Those hands always reminded me that I was a “BIG GIRL” and that “BIG GIRLS DON’T CRY.” And somehow I enjoyed this new role-play.
Now when I reminisce my childhood, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of sheer disbelief that two hands could perform the job of ten. One hand was wrapped around my fingers (which were turning blue as I held the pencil so tightly) and was guiding my hand along a four-lined notebook, teaching me to form the letters of the alphabet. Another hand held a knife, threatening to hurt me if I ran out to play (all with a good intention; now I see how the threats have paid off). One hand patted my little sister to sleep. Another one held the telephone to order a tin of Cerelac. And believe it or not, one hand was still free to take on any new work!
All I can say is that through the years, those hands were always there for me. Those strong wrists with square, laboring palms, straight firm fingers and short, neat practical nails. Hands that were efficient in making everything from ‘paranthas’ to project files; hands that liked everything in its assigned place, in a struggle to make the house disgustingly clean; hands that knew when any of her three children deserved a pat on the back or a smack on the mouth...Yet through this journey, what didn’t change was the meaning that they held in my life. Despite my best efforts, not in a lifetime, would I be capable enough of emulating them.
And even today when those hands hold me tightly, the promise which was whispered to my soul eighteen years ago is renewed… and I feel ‘truly touched’ all over again… “Mamma, no matter how old I become, I know for a fact that my hand would never ever ever grow too big for yours…”
I had opened my eyes to a whole new world… a world that was quaint and strange… and I saw this world through the eyes of those who had brought me here. Raising a child is a Herculean task. Those hands were challenged to go through endless cycles of ‘Feed, curdle, clean, cradle to sleep, change nappy, then cradle to sleep once again’. And just before those hands even thought about catching a little nap, I was bawling my lungs out… Here we go, get your act together - ‘Feed, curdle, clean, cradle to sleep, change nappy, then cradle to sleep’ all over again.
People say that I was a sickly child…To tell you the truth, I was an attention seeker. Always demanding attention from those hands that had never left me in the first place. Purposely, I’d fake an illness; wanting only to be sponge-bathed by those hands… I didn’t care a mite that Daddy had fractured his arm and he too needed some assistance from those hands that were always so full of me…
Those hands encouraged me to take my very first steps… And guess what I did? I left them! I left them to walk into my father’s arms… Aren’t you proud of me, Papa? Those hands gave me a father, and then grudgingly complained because in an instant I had become Daddy’s little girl.
Years passed in a blur of potty-training, bedtime stories and bruises. Every time I fell down those hands picked me up, wiped away my tears, washed my wound and carefully dabbed antiseptic onto it. Those hands were pure magic... even Edward the Confessor did not possess such a gift of healing.
Then one cold December night, those hands carefully placed in my lap a small wailing bundle which looked a lot like my Strawberry Shortcake Doll… and in nanoseconds, from being a spoilt three year old, I became a responsible ‘Didi’. Those hands held mine and gingerly made me touch the face of the tiny doll in my lap… I kissed my palm and blew a kiss to her.
That was the end of it… Those hands entertained no more tantrums. No longer did they spoil me, no longer did they pamper me. My new designation as ‘Elder Sister’ was serious business; and I was to be trained to behave like one. Now when I fell, my tears were not wiped away. Those hands always reminded me that I was a “BIG GIRL” and that “BIG GIRLS DON’T CRY.” And somehow I enjoyed this new role-play.
Now when I reminisce my childhood, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of sheer disbelief that two hands could perform the job of ten. One hand was wrapped around my fingers (which were turning blue as I held the pencil so tightly) and was guiding my hand along a four-lined notebook, teaching me to form the letters of the alphabet. Another hand held a knife, threatening to hurt me if I ran out to play (all with a good intention; now I see how the threats have paid off). One hand patted my little sister to sleep. Another one held the telephone to order a tin of Cerelac. And believe it or not, one hand was still free to take on any new work!
All I can say is that through the years, those hands were always there for me. Those strong wrists with square, laboring palms, straight firm fingers and short, neat practical nails. Hands that were efficient in making everything from ‘paranthas’ to project files; hands that liked everything in its assigned place, in a struggle to make the house disgustingly clean; hands that knew when any of her three children deserved a pat on the back or a smack on the mouth...Yet through this journey, what didn’t change was the meaning that they held in my life. Despite my best efforts, not in a lifetime, would I be capable enough of emulating them.
And even today when those hands hold me tightly, the promise which was whispered to my soul eighteen years ago is renewed… and I feel ‘truly touched’ all over again… “Mamma, no matter how old I become, I know for a fact that my hand would never ever ever grow too big for yours…”
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