Vicky Vikneshri Puminathan U1030948J Fiction - Final Submission

To hold your hand

She unclenched her delicate fingers and carefully slid her right hand towards the right pocket of her faded lilac dress. The lace was falling apart at its seams, but she had greater things to worry about. Her face and body remained as still as the hoisted flag in the afternoon air. Her fingers inched into the opening of her right pocket. Her hand had the path to her pocket inscribed at the back of it. There, she felt the tips of her fingers touch the fleeting cool surface and sighed a quiet sigh of relief. Her finger traced parts of the delicate carving, back and forth, and she wrapped all her fingers around the odd shaped, oblong pendent. This had become a daily ritual now. Tears started to well in her eyes, but no, she wouldn't let them fall, she couldnt. She rolled her eyes towards the heavens in an attempt to save them from tumbling down her burning cheeks. Selma was watching her with the curious eyes of a baby deer unaware of the dangers that lurked around the corner.

I have to be strong for Selma. That is what Ma would have wanted.

She clenched the pendant in her pocket a little tighter. A little tighter and at the same time gently for fear of destroying any bit of it. A mastered controlled grip. Each grip around it felt like the warmth of a woolen blanket on monsoon nights or a wet embrace after a swim in the chilly river. And whenever she did that, she felt stronger. It felt like mas tough grip around the tips of her index, middle and ring fingers. Awkward, but familiar. Strange, but lovely.

Ma always said that holding hands were special. She said that it was the purest form of affection and that taking someones hand was like making a promise. A promise that even if not forever, but for that moment, they need not walk alone.

She took her right hand and clasped it firmly around her three fingers. She squeezed them to the point that the pain on each finger was collective and indistinguishable, to the point where her tips turned a whiter shade of pale, to the point where she could no longer tell what she was doing without first, glancing at her own hands. Still, her face remained hush and her breath, so steady.

A strong gust blew by, rattling all that hung loosely. The sound of rattling metal jolted her back as she loosened her grip and let her hands fall limp by her sides. She glanced in the direction of the source of this rare rush. Cerulean sky, grass ... she wasnt taking second glances. She didnt need to. All those weeks of waiting by the window, had carved every detail in her mind.

The worst stories always happen in the most beautiful of places, she remembered reading in one of mas books.

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The flimsy pages of the weekly calendar ruffled slightly in the occasional wind, as if gesturing for attention. Attention that they had long been neglected of. Besides the sun, all that marked the passing of time was the pile of newspapers that had collected itself by the door. Religiously, another friday scroll was lying by the pile, on the patchy cemented floor, marking the only day that stood out. Selma had tossed it in on her way out. I wriggled my toes with each step towards the door. The floor was warm from the heat, and sandy from the lack of a mothers fussing. I removed the band and unrolled it, glancing at the first byline. An unfamiliar name glared back. The cover photo was of a blood specked scene and a middle-aged lady shielding her face with her palms. Coldly, I placed it atop the pile, neatening the sides.

I remember how you got up earlier on Fridays, Ma, how youd beat eggs with that attempted air of nonchalance and yet, how the paper never got to bask in the morning light for long. Sometimes over breakfast, Id catch you reading your own articles with the slightest frown or smile. Youd tap the wooden table periodically. Sometimes with two fingers, other times with three. But always, with no sensible rhythm. It always drove me so mad.

Im sorry that I was ever mad at you, Ma.

Ma, do you know, they said that you didnt exist, that you never worked for them, that there was no such assignment at the border? And then, they said you left long ago, that you had been dismissed. So did I live with a ghost all my life? Was it a nameless phantom that embraced me at night, that fed

and clothed me? This was a country known for its fabric and fabricators, for humans with no humanity, for men with no mercy, you often said. I never understood you then.

I stared at the pile of papers for a moment longer. The stare grew into a sigh and I decided to walk back to the window, to sit at it a little longer. Selma was out to play and wouldnt be back for a bit. I could almost hear the chorus of the river as I imagined her jumping into it without a care. The water engulfing her in one breath. The chilliness shooting through her spine. The slight shudder. The lightness of being young and unburdened. The unfairness of it all.

I walked towards the wooden stool by the low sill that stood accompanied by the impression of my uneven weight on its face, and found that one place on it that didnt allow for that familiar wobble. I never got to mending that slightly shorter back leg. I could feel the pinch of the light, just by being near the window. The March heat was a scorcher. I remember how youd sit by the fan, fanning yourself with the nearest paper and groan about the heat, Ma. I couldnt help but scoff a little at how dramatic you sometimes were. Then youd forget about it as soon as you ended your sentence, and ask about the new boy in school, the book I was reading last night or what we should put together for dinner. Oh how we loved the texture of fish, the way we could break its white flesh and see it crumble in layers. I can barely remember the taste of fish or the smell it left on my hand, these days.

In fact, I can barely remember many things these days. I cant remember how constant chatter echoed within these walls. Last night, I couldnt remember your classic look of confusion as I pictured you with my hands clasped over your pendent. Moments like this make me panic a little, and I close my eyes and try harder not to disappoint you. Sometimes, when I lay in bed with my eyes closed, I imagine you tugging at my blanket and covering my feet like you used to while I feigned sleep. I started using the same bar soap you did, Ma. Just the smell, made me breathe easier.

I found my eyes loitering towards the direction of the kitchen, the thought of fresh fish still lingering. They paused at the black and white photo of you in her younger days, squatting by a tiger. Your favourite pendent carved on your chest, with that look of pride lining your jaws. In the background, stood the keeper in uniform, staring at you instead of his creature.

You lived so fearlessly, Ma. Two Mays ago, I remember how you climbed the tree outside Aunty Leilas house to save little Linans kite. You had shaken my firm grip on your wrist loose and

started your little adventure up, as I clasped my hands in cold sweat. It was so high, Ma! You could have fallen and died! I had screamed, only to hear you reply with a laugh. Your fearlessness always made me feel so uneasy, Ma. It was this that made you perfect for your job though. How you loved every moment of it. I couldnt decide if I blamed you or your job for your absence. I was always your prosecutor though, fighting for your innocence. But sometimes the defense put up a pretty good show. Sometimes, they had great come backs and mean, unanswerable questions.

If it was so dangerous an assignment, why did prosecution take it on against her better judgement? Isnt it the prosecutions duty to weigh the cost, being a single parent of two? Shouldnt the prosecution be sure of her own responsibilities all the more so since, she adopted a child of late?

Court was always adjourned, accompanied by awkward silence.

Was it fair to me, Ma, to leave me to fend for another like my own?

I turned to look back at the black and white photo. You with one hand on the back of the tiger. I can almost feel the motion of your right hand stroking over it. You loved the motion of stroking. Your right knee when you were deep in thought, the neighbours cat, my hair, Selmas back as she slept. Youve grown more beautiful since, Ma. Time had imprinted itself on you well.

Just as I shifted my glance towards the kitchen table, I heard a collection of footsteps. Selma burst in dripping wet. Her giggles were still echoing behind her, pushing to get in through the door. She looked at me stunned, and frowned a little. Any remnants of her leftover smile slowly creeped away, like a dog walking away backwards from a house it had been banished from. She tried to mirror my plain expression. I didnt think Id look so solemn. We had held each others gaze for a little too long and I looked away. Theres rice in the pot, if youre hungry, I said. I glanced back to catch her nod, as she slowly paced towards the kitchen. Were going to church in an hour, get ready, I ordered, expecting her to know of the weekly prayer for the deceased. Aunty Leila had asked us to drop by since Mas name would be recited.

Will God help me make sense of your absence?

If I should mourn your lost completely, and have you return, will I have even the tiniest bit of disappointment? It is this I fear, Ma. If you were to ever return, I want to feel only joy. If I should keep waiting, every set of footsteps by the door, every knock, every phone call, would lead to anticipation followed only by disappointment, and each day would end incomplete, and each day would begin a little tarnished.

I was so tired and it was time to leave. Selma! I shouted from the door, slightly annoyed that she wasnt already waiting to leave. Sel!! I said again, louder. This time there was a hint of shuffling from inside. As soon as I saw her, I opened the door and started walking slowly, so she could catch up eventually.

After what felt like 10 whole minutes, I was still walking alone. You would walk faster, if she were your own mother, I murmured under my breath, placing a weighted footstep over a deep pink mimosa. As the echo of the words trailed away, I abruptly froze in my footsteps. The weight of those words started to resonate within. I had let them escape too soon. I felt Mas gaze. My heartbeat hastened and my eyes darted for a clue - her shadow. I stopped walking and turned, hoping to find Selma still prancing far behind. Just a feet before me, she stood. My eyes darted awkwardly as I bit down on my lower lip. Her tiny eyes stood starkly, brimming with tears, threatening to tumble with the slightest gale. In that moment, as my heart sank in quiet apologies, it struck me. This was the lady who had saved her from the depths of hopelessness as she stood bereft of protection, from the world. This was the lady who had shown her a strangers unconditional love and kindness, and given her a hand to hold. A hand to hold, only to have it taken away so soon. She was her mother too, as much as Id wanted to deny it. I never saw the situation through anyone elses eyes, never saw anothers love for her, but mine.

For what seemed like the first time, I looked at her for the person that she was. The child that stood before me. This moment of long silence between us was so uncomfortably new. What id initially perceived as a look of anger, seemed to be something more. There was a kind of emptiness in her stare and I struggled to put a label to it. I had never seen her like this. She had overgrown bangs that swept across her heart-shaped face. They rested flat on her forehead, damp from sweat. Her thin lips made her beady eyes seem more pronounced. The dark brown gathering round her pupils on the left, shined as the tears reflected the light they were enveloped in. The way the perimeters of her

eyes met on the outskirts and slopped, bathed her in an air of mischief. I wondered what she thought of me, of my unkempt hair and fuller lips, of my coldness and my silence, of my unkind words. As if instructed, they fell in unison as two heavy drops, tumbling down either cheeks. I sank, one knee at a time, feeling the punch of the warm soil and the edges of twigs beneath, and outstretched my arms as she nuzzled into the gap created between them. She threw her arms around my neck. Her tears and mine became one where our cheeks met. We both snuffled a little as I squeezed her a little tighter. Her tiny frame, warm, pressed against mine. I tried whispering an apology, but the whisper made no sound. I was too choked to try again. Selma slowly loosened her grip around my neck, and I mirrored her in reply. My knees were still pressed against the soil. Selma put her hands into her dress pocket. A sleeveless, light pink, collared dress. The missing first button, still had remnants of its cream-coloured thread. She stretched her right arm forth and opened her palm, revealing two tiny glass beads. They were both clear on the outside with swirls of colour within. One was slightly bigger than the other, and the colours in it shone brighter. She picked up the bigger bead with her left hand and held it before my chin. I raised my left eyebrow questioningly, with a slight smile creeping up at the eagerness that now seemed to highlight her cheekbones. Ma gave me ... For you, she said, her eyes beaming. Questions flew past like the returning flocks that spotted the August sky- When? What was it a part of? I outstretched my right palm hesitantly and she placed the bead on it with a gentle smile. I searched my mind, stumbling for the right words or action. Thank you, Selma. Its very pretty, I said, still rummaging for an equivalent expression of emotion. The innocence of her gesture made me feel all the more inadequate as an older sister. My hand reached into my own pocket. The doubts grew as my hand lowered itself deeper. Would I regret this?

I enveloped mas pendent, giving it a gentle grip. It was time. I took my hand out of my pocket in one swift motion, as the chain trailed behind. Selma peered at it with slight wonder. I took a last look at it, resting snuggly in the dip of my palm. Its coolness against my skin, its weight, its carvings. They were all too familiar. More familiar than I would have liked. It was time. I took the chain with both hands and slipped it quickly over selmas neck. It felt right. It felt right. Mas ... favourite necklace. For you, Sel, I said. She smiled widely and leaned towards me with another tight embrace. Take care of it, I whispered, all along certain she would.

After church, as night fell, we walked home hand in hand. Our hands held in whole, and not like the way ma would hold it. Your hands were smaller and softer, and they rested snuggly in the curvature

of mine. My hand now encased yours, the way mas used to. The comforting silence spoke for itself, as I took in the moment with one deep breath -

I had a hand to hold and a sister to call my own.

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