HANDS

Long before I heard the story of the artist and his brother, I used to find myself looking at my hands. As a little girl, I used to think how much of a small tree my hands seemed. Five small and leafless fingers branching out to reach for special things the way a tree lifts up its arms in its eternal pursuit of the sky.

I didn’t have sisters then, but I had cousins who lived with us and we used to play finger puppets, gruesomely pulling off our dolls’ heads and sticking our fingers into them, knowing someone will fix the dolls for us later, but that the finger puppet game would only last the afternoon. How did we ever learn that our fingers could move so independently from each other without being amazed at the genius of it?

I used to stare at my hands thinking how detached it feels sometimes, from the rest of me. And when I moved my fingers, how in this world did the movement get from my mind to my fingers? Would there ever be a time when my mind could no longer will them to move? I would stop in the middle of coloring a picture book and stare at them in wonder, finding myself transfixed at something I could not comprehend.

It was an existential thought. That’s what they teach us in Psychology. That there are instances in our lives where we are suddenly and ultimately aware of our existence. That we are here. That we exist. That we have some kind of purpose for being here, and when that purpose has been fulfilled, we would one day, not be here. Hence, my constant wonder at my hands is actually a constant wonder at my being here. The eternal question of what am I supposed to be doing?

And then, in first year Medicine, Regional Anatomy teaches us how each muscle originates from someplace and inserts in another. That the biceps has two bellies and triceps has three. That, by definition, the thumb is not a finger but a digit. That each muscle fiber moves in synchrony, like a well oiled machine. That there are networks of arteries and veins branching out through them like the red lines in a road map designed to guide you but you get lost all the same. That there are muscle compartments, and in each compartment are a group of muscles with complicated latin names that were supposed to make remembering them easier. That when I clench my hand into a fist, or when I reach out for something, or when I simply hold someone’s hand in my own, I’d be able to imagine which muscle groups are flexing and which are giving way. Which nerve is responsible for what movement. Which artery is that which I feel, pulsing through my fingers when its clasped in the hands of someone I love?

I’m a physician now. And when someone comes to me with a wounded hand, I’d know what to do. When someone complains of pain there, I’d be able to make a knowledgable assessment.

But the truth of the matter is, up until now, I still find myself gazing at my hands and wondering if they’re truly mine…