To tell a story

Tell me your story, he said. She was silent. Where do you begin? How do you condense a life into a few short words?

She looked down at her hands. My hands could tell my story, she thought. The callouses of a veena player, the second finger's thicker than the index finger's; the long nails on her right hand, the vertical line of discoloration on the little finger's nail that's caused by repeated striking of the drone strings. The thickened sinews of the wrists and the hardened heel of her right palm could tell about the hours of practice. Or my ankles could, she thought. A tale of bearing the veena's weight and endless hours of music sitting cross-legged and the callouses thereof.

Tell me your story, he said. She was silent. Where do you begin? How do you condense a life into a few short words?

She looked down at her hands. My hands could tell my story, she thought. The myriad scars of little-felt scrapes of the grater, the knife; the scalds and occasional splatter of an excited mustard seed; of a lifetime of meals made, and people fed. Of judging dishes, of countless stews stirred, vegetables diced and sliced and minced and grated. Of spices ground and batters made and fritters fried. Of how natural the knife felt now in the hand that used to race up and down the frets of the veena.

Tell me your story, he said. She was silent. Where do you begin? How do you condense a life into a few short words?

She looked down at her hands. My hands could tell my story, she thought. The slim fingers with their knuckles thickening with arthritis that is her inheritance; or was that thickening because of the times she'd crack the knuckles to loosen up and start working again? Her hands could tell her story, of the hours spent writing and typing; of the words that flowed out of her onto paper, to her hard disk; of the words she tried to define her world with, herself with.

Tell me your story, he said. She was silent. Where do you begin? How do you condense a life into a few short words?

Her hand fluttered to her face. My face could tell my story, she thought. The faded almost invisible scar on her forehead could tell of the toddler that fell and cut herself, the panicky scolding mother, and the protective brother dragging her away (she was too heavy to carry) from frightened wrath. Or the equally faded crescent on her chin could tell of the time she bravely if foolishly tried to lance a whitlow and fainted, splitting her chin and cutting her lip. The faint lines that bracket her mouth could tell of the times she laughed and lived.

Tell me your story, he said. She was silent. Where do you begin? How do you condense a life into a few short words?

She stirred uncomfortably. My body could tell my story, she thought. The scars of surgeries from a keloid to appendectomy; her scars could tell of disease and health, of life and age. Each scar telling a tale of life, the ancient mark of chickenpox to the latest bruise she received as she bumped into something; of everyday life and extraordinary events.

Tell me your story, he said. She looked up and smiled brightly. I don't have a story, she said, I just am.

Cheers!