Hands That Never Left Me

By Afshan Farheen

It started with a chilly wind that made my nose scrunch up. I curled my body inward, afraid I might fall apart. I rubbed my arms as the sounds around me faded into white noise. I keep on following my family that is moving forward despite the stranger irritated glances and tough crowd, train is moving on an average pace but i was excited -- we would be exploring Barog.

I moved my eyes around few seats that were left, one of them was beside two middle-aged man who looked like friends. My legs felt numb. I wanted to sit, cursing myself for not being strong. After a while i found myself sitting beside a man that has greyish blue eyes.

I have always been jealous of people with distinct features -- whether it is dimples or light eyes. I moved my eyes because, first, i didn't want to momentarily stare at a stranger. I've heard they take wrong meanings. but the better reason was that i could stare at the window, which showcased such breathtaking view. It was'nt just the trees - it was more about the kind of scenery i feel completly oblivious to while staying at Delhi. My lungs relaxed here.

 I started humming while few strands of hairs brushed my cheeks occasionally-  teasing and ticking me. I smiled a little, I soon started drifting into the rhythmic sound of train. I could not see much- uncle was taking all of the space- but i didnt dare ask him to move a little.

Perhaps it was the old belief — that light eyes carry hidden darkness. A myth stitched into me by rumours and whispers. I shook it off, scolding myself, and tried to sit comfortably in the seat I was fortunate to find.

My eyes drifted — from windows, to people, to colours: red, yellow, white. So vibrant, I thought. My gaze wandered until it rested on my family. I locked eyes with my aunt- she looked at me as if she was trying to warn me. I squinted them a little, pretending i understood, and lowered my eyes, i think she was warning me about the man who was next to me, who again striked a question, asking me about the school and class i go to, i answered politely and moved my eyes back to my aunt,  

contemplating if it was okay to respond. But this time i found no eyes-   only a hand.

 Not mine.

 His.

 Rested confidently on my lap.

I looked at his orbs, trying to exchange my agitation, but he was looking out the window,

brushing his hands against my lap as if someone checking a mango.

Is it ripe enough? 

 To bet,

 To buy,

 To enjoy. 

I could not speak, my tongue tied to unspoken rules of not 

upsetting others- ones i created for myself.

I tried to brush his hands off, but it didn't moved. Not even an inch. 

I whimpered, whispered.

My eyes did not dare to move from his hands- terrified it would travel upward, without my surveillance. But in the end-  i, -i dont remember how- i believe i forced his hands away. 

I took a deep breath quietly, afraid it would bother someone's peace, afraid to question, cry, yell. I was afraid to become a nuisance. So i did what i was best at:

 I built a wall.

 I gently told my uncle to exchange seats. He didn't ask, why- I was glad. But his preying eyes followed me , not with remorse but with arrogance.

 I sat down, away from his eyes. But then i questioned everything- like i always do.

 Myself.

 I did not understand what that was. I looked at my lap - it no longer looked a part of me. It felt foreign. The imprint i believed my jeans -  my 

skin had-, I wanted to wash away.

 To be burnt.

 To be buried.

I felt completely nothing. Blaming myself for not speaking 

enough. For not being strong.

Even now when they call me strong — all lies, all unrevealed.

I looked at my family again — their faces clueless, joyful.

But I did'nt have the courage to tell them, that I am now carrying a hand that is going to stay with me, Forever. 

How could i?

 ever leave my body,

How could i hate? How could i undo?? 

Tell me-  

How should i clean what no one sees? 

How to be pure again?

 Just to carry another imprint

 that will never leave me.

By Afshan Farheen