Palmist: A short story

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.’