His hand stretches out in mine, the taut fingers bent
backward on their joints. They taper into nails as sharp as his gaze, piercing
through mine. He munches on a big fat chicken burger but his attention is all
on me. It’s poetic, this wordless conversation; all his senses are directed at
me and I pretend to be focussing on the lines on his hand instead.
He’s the hard-to-play type.
It is rare that one comes across a skeptic like him in my
profession. You see, much like godmen and swindlers, a palmist like me only
attracts the impressionable and the faint at heart. These are people who hand
you over their belief readily. Almost too readily at times, at the expense of
their hard-earned wealth. But then, I cannot do without them; as they say in
Hindi, “पापी पेट का
सवाल है”.
But this guy is
not one of them. He looks at me with poorly-disguised disbelief and a conceited
expression. He wears doubt on his sleeve, quite literally so: A faded badge on
his worn-out school jacket proclaims, “Question everything.” His sidekick girlfriends
giggle and stare at my haggardly appearance, ready to be amazed and amused by
my prophetic insights. The kid’s here to challenge me, a seemingly illiterate
roadside palmist, to reveal accurate details about his past and future by
studying the lines on his palms. Sound like such an arbitrary association,
right: between lines on one’s hand and their fortune? It appears very far-fetched
when put that way, I grant you that. But look at it from where I’m seated, and
the truth seems less mystical.
I survey my surrounding one last time before diving straight
into specimen’s hand: it’s time for serious work. My frowned brow and steady
stare is as much theatrics as it is actual concentration, and these punks are
going to know why, very soon.
Pallid, stretched out
fingers. Square at ends, untidily grazed nails: Easily excitable, impatient
and adventurous; often the archetype of an overenthusiastic schoolboy out to
impress girls...like this guy right here.
“I see,” I say, in my most profound-sounding voice, “that
you have had your ups and downs in life.”
“Everyone has,” he snaps. “Don’t fleece me, lady. Live up to
the 10 rupees I’ve paid you.” Cue laughter from his minion fangirls. He takes a
big bite of the burger, his interest wavering.
I smile to myself. I like a challenge once a while; it gets
boring when everyone agrees with you.
“Give me a moment, साहब,”
I speak feebly, playing my
part to the T and dig into his palm once more. “Ooh, but there’s trouble!” I
exclaim for effect. I bet he shudders for a second before recovering.
“Ya, right,” he
laughs.
Dirt sticking to the inside of nails, white
patches indicating leukonychia: deficient diet, untidiness and indifference to personal grooming. Since
he’s definitely not a day more than 15 and he’s wearing a school jacket, it’s
highly unlikely that he lives away from home. Yes, there’s that off-chance of
him belonging to a boarding school, but given that there are very few of those
in the city and that no institution with boarding facility would allow its pre-adult
residents out in the evening with members of the opposite sex is highly
unlikely, hence, the obvious answer is that there is no one to look after him
at home. It hasn’t been a recent absence, though; he hasn’t had time to set it
into his nail-cleaning routine –
“What happened,
aunty? Why so silent? Is your ‘sight’ failing you?” he jeers. Thunderous
laughter again.
I smile defenselessly
.
“The lines never
lie, sir,” I speak, stretching the moment. “If you would be so kind to give me
a moment of contemplation…” I trail off and look into the depths of his hands
again. I turn them around.
Parched skin, blackened knuckles, premature
wrinkling: signs of
further lack of grooming. And the final nail in the coffin: high digit ratio between lengths of ring finger and index finger,
which indicates feminine traits. These people are generally attracted to more masculine
better halves, among other attributes like natural propensity to obesity, heart
disease, depression and so on…
“Are you even
trying, lady?” He asks, his patience wearing thin. I ignore him and continue to
peer in single-minded dedication. For one last time, I turn around his palms
face-up, give them a little twist and stretch and leave them loose.
Left knuckles cracked more than the right, fingertips
dug in slightly more than the latter’s: he is left-handed. Aah, faded cut-marks on left fingertips as
well! Looks like he used to learn the guitar until recently, that too with
the wrong arm…
“Do you really
want to know the truth, sir?” I speak finally, releasing my grip. I beamed at
him with all sincerity. “Will you be able to take it?”
“Listen, lady. I’ve
been waiting to hear your so-called ‘truth’ for the longest time. If it were
not for my ten rupee investment, I’d have gone away long ago. So, speak up or I’ll
be forced to refund.” His patience had just given way.
“Okay, so here it
is.” I started in a tone of finality.
Fun begins now.
“You’ve lost your
mom in the recent past and your father has distanced himself from you since
then. You have a flair for the arts, yet you have abandoned them in view of
your personal tragedy. You have a naturally gentle and level-headed
temperament, upon which you have added on layers of fake alpha-male mannerisms
to hide your personal turmoil. You were once an imaginative young boy, full of
wonder and excitement for life, but years of bitter experiences have turned you
into a cheap copy of yourself. You constantly strive to build walls around
yourself and reclaim your dented self-esteem by having a crowd of admirers
around you who are sycophants of the highest order. The sooner you lose them,
the earlier you’ll truly grow as a person.”
I pause for breath
as he looks at me with an unreadable expression. A few shot in the darks, but I
believe I am heading in the right direction.
“This was about
your past. Now, let’s look at your future.” I speak with newfound
determination, adding up all my observations. “You will contract a cardiovascular
disease in your mid-40s and if you keep on with this diet,” I gesture towards
his half-eaten burger, “it’ll probably be life threatening. You will have to be
wary of many other diseases like schizophrenia, depression and paranoia, which,
as per your lines, will affect you if you’re not careful. You will be married
to a woman,” I bend over and whisper in his ear, “-none of these,” staring at
the two very feminine-looking fangirls, who look back in curiosity, “who will
be very assertive and aggressive. She will probably dictate terms with you and the
two of you will have a good equation throughout.”
I let out a heavy
sigh and wait for the effect. In his eyes, there is either absolute awe and
shock or utter disappointment and anger. Either my predictions have been
spot-on or they’re off by a mile. Maybe dirty nails and cracking of knuckles mean nothing remotely close to what I inferred, or they could mean
everything like it. This moment in time, of wait and anticipation, stretches on
for an eternity.
And as the poets
say, ‘my life hangs in balance.’
