When Hands Speak!
Nazir Jahangir
The panoramic view of the valley bathed in sunshine made the day remarkably enjoyable. The couple, seated outside their home, soaked in the sun. Yet, the shadow of a traumatic injury the man had suffered a month earlier loomed over them, dulling any romantic inclinations.
Suddenly, a severed human hand fell before them.
“Oh God! What’s that? A human hand?!” she shrieked in fright, instinctively tilting her gaze toward the sky. Shielding her eyes with her hands, she noticed an eagle soaring overhead. The sight convinced her that the hand had slipped from the bird’s grasp. Fear seized them both, and they stood frozen. The once clear sky began to cloud over.
“A severed human hand, carried by an eagle? This is horrifying!” she whispered, trembling.
Their eyes remained glued to the grotesque sight before them. Terror gripped their hearts as the hand’s sudden, surreal arrival left them dazed.
She removed her shawl and placed it gently over the lifeless hand, her gesture a tribute to the person it once belonged to. Tears welled in their eyes.
“What if it’s your hand?” she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. The words, though absurd, reflected her tenderness and deep love for her husband.
“Sometimes intelligence irritates, but silliness delights,” her husband mused to himself. “Oh, you silly woman! How could it be mine?” he replied, his tone playful yet affectionate. Beneath his satirical remark lay an ocean of love, which she sensed and appreciated.
“How could a severed hand stay intact for an entire month?” he muttered, tears silently spilling from his eyes. His wife, too, began to sob.
To deflect her sorrow, he remarked, “God Almighty can make the unusual happen! Who knows, this hand might really be mine!”
The suggestion startled her, though she dismissed it. “That’s impossible. A severed hand couldn’t remain in this condition for so long,” she insisted, dabbing her tears with the corner of her scarf.
“Who knows?” he continued. “Maybe a bird picked it up, stored it in its nest, and met some tragic fate—perhaps blown apart in an explosion. Then, today, the eagle found it and carried it, only to drop it here.”
As he spoke, he seemed almost to wish the hand were his. Perhaps he was caught in a web of thoughts where imagination blended with his pain, creating a strange longing.
Dreams often breathe life into despair. For him, this macabre hope was a form of escape.
“I’m too scared to examine it,” she admitted, her gaze fixed on the shawl-covered hand.
“I feel the same,” he replied with a faint, strained smile.
“Still, we must face it,” she urged, her voice firm despite her trembling. “We can’t just leave it here.”
“You’re right,” he sighed. A memory of his injury flashed through his mind, and he hesitated.
“Sometimes, we must harden our hearts and face reality,” she said with a deep sigh, her voice faltering but resolute.
Slowly, they approached the covered hand. Their steps were hesitant, their breaths shallow. Their emotions churned, leaving them both paralyzed with dread.
As the evening sky painted itself in shades of pink, they stood over the shawl-covered hand. Patches of blue sky peeked through the clouds, offering faint glimmers of hope amidst their despair.
Just then, an eagle swooped down, snatched the shawl, and flew away. Stunned, they instinctively looked upward, then back at the exposed hand.
“Was it the same eagle that dropped the hand?” they wondered. Caught in a storm of superstition and unease, their minds spiraled with unanswered questions.
Breaking the silence, he said, “Maybe this hand is mine.”
His words jolted her from her reverie. She looked closely at the hand, her curiosity tinged with fear. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled—a fleeting, enigmatic smile that faded as quickly as it appeared, like the mystery of the Mona Lisa.
“What is it?” he asked, alarmed.
“This is a right hand,” she replied, her voice breaking. “You lost your left hand in the blast. God forbid…” Her eyes brimmed with tears again.
Subconsciously, he glanced at his left wrist. “God is wise,” he murmured. “The right hand can’t replace the left, though both are hands.” He sighed deeply.
“Should we bury it?” she suggested hesitantly, eager to put an end to their ordeal.
“No!” he exclaimed, his voice charged with emotion. Memories overwhelmed him, making him restless.
“Why not?” she asked, her tone tinged with confusion and concern.
“Because we don’t know whose hand this is! What if it belonged to someone who did evil—someone who bullied the weak, spread lies, or committed heinous acts? Such a hand doesn’t deserve respect,” he declared passionately.
“But what if it belonged to a poet, a craftsman, or someone who created beauty with it?” she countered gently.
Their debate was interrupted as another eagle descended, seized the hand, and disappeared into the sky.
They stood in stunned silence, their strained eyes meeting briefly before gazing upward again.