Holding hands

holding hands

I walk down the street and the sun is shining bright, I see them, their brisk walk, their grey hairs, but what I observe most is the holding hands! The hands are joined in a confident clasp, secured and yet relaxed, there is no tension. The hands reflect their relationship, the love and security in their autumn years.

I walk into a shop, the shop window had a dress which enticed me in, I see them immediately. They are shopping, happy in each other’s company, a day off from kids, maybe. They are a sophisticated pair, I notice all that, but foremost I notice the holding hands. The grip is firm, exuding power, exuding a sense of belonging, the fingers latched on tightly. The hands reflect their relationship, in control, successful and in the prime of their lives.

I sit in the park, tired after a long walk. Soaking in the quietness of the place, they walk  in, a happy walk, a giddy-feeling walk. I see them in their air of complete seclusion, they are there yet completely aloof to their surroundings, eyes dancing and all smiles, coy ones, seductive ones! They are holding hands, I notice that, the hands are loosely held, fingers interlaced casually, some are free, some are together. The hands reflect their status, young, free and life is calling!

I walk down a mountain, after a long climb onto the top, it was tiring yet exhilarating! The walk down is tricky, a wrong step and I could fall hard, suddenly I hear a shout ‘Help me!’, I turn around to see a hand extend, as a small hand slip into it and the words echo ‘Don’t worry, you will be fine!’. The hands are tightly locked, the small hand completely covered by the big hand, the hands reveal a bond of trust, complete and secure.

This is a saga of holding hands, hands which scripts a million tales and fingers which traces many paths! At each stage the hands clasps differently and each clasp is unique, definitive and so vital. The crucial thing is to have another hand to hold, always!






‘Home’, the word evokes a thought,

it brings comfort to your spirit and solace to your mind.

‘Home’ for me is where my ma and baba lives,

not because I am still a child but because they alone, live in the house which treasure my childhood memories, they are the only known keepers of little me, the real me!

Ages ago when I was a child too, laughed myself silly, played pranks and dissolved into tears.

‘Home’, where my thakuma lived, my loving gran, her stories shaped my life, her hands caressed every hurt and wiped away every tear.

She is no more but yet she is there, each day as I cook my meals and tell stories to my little ones, never very far away!

I visited my home, time stands still there until broken by a tug at my arm, as my little one wants my attention.

There is nostalgia, memory, little me and little them, there is a confluence of sorts.

There is home cooked food, prepared and served with care by my ma, who still knows what I like best. I get that nowhere.

There is peace and quiet, as slumber descends upon me every sunny afternoon. Something that I don’t do elsewhere!

There is the urge to retreat back into the haven of carefree childhood, not a care, knowing my parents are watching my back. Something I have to do elsewhere!

The mind connects with my heart and soul, and celebrates homecoming!

‘Home’, how much I miss this feeling, now again thousand miles away!