My Mother’s Hands.

Author: Reena D.

My mother’s hands were never still. They kneaded dough, tied braids, flipped through recipes, folded saris. When I was a child, I thought her hands could fix anything.

When she got sick, those same hands began to tremble. I remember holding them in the hospital room, tracing the lines of her palms like maps I didn’t want to lose.

After she passed, I found her old recipe notebook, pages stained with turmeric and tears. Cooking her food again — dal with too much cumin, flatbreads that burned at the edges, became my way of keeping her near.

Now my daughter stands beside me at the stove, asking to stir the pot. And when I guide her hand, I see my mother’s fingers in mine.