TAKE MY HAND AND TAKE MY HAND
by Debaleena Mukherjee

This is not a raised fist in a mindless mob.
This is my hand: my banner in a faceless crowd.
I hold this closed fist aloft and steadily clenched,
I will grip the crevices in life’s cliff and dig a survival trench.

I will hoist myself up where the winds of freedom blow, and the grass is hope-green.
They say that my palm has the story lines of my life yet unseen and unknown.
But I’ve closed off those lines and asked Fate to wait and Fate complied
I have used my own pencils to draw the lines on my hand with my Free Will.

My hand is about my sinews, my tenacity, my hold on my uncertainty and my ego
The bones, the muscles and the veins zing my fingertips with surges of blood.
These slender bones turn into rapiers of righteousness and defence,
While muscles throb with the kinaesthesia of my yes; my no–my choices.

If I am determined then this fist remains clenched in challenge.
Then again this same hand softly clutches a baby’s finger; draws into an embrace .
This hand’s touch is the touchstone of flawsome humanity,
My hand has calluses but the caress is of sympathy and empathy.

My nails have the sheen of courage and self-defence,
My hands decide how to “have and to hold”on to my decisive choice.
This is also the hand that reaches out in understanding even if shunned,
And still touches with tenderness to push the fledgling in its leap of faith.

This the hand that reaches out and clasps a lost, scared hand,
For even as we pray for divine hand to lead us to the light
It’s the warmth of human hands that we yearn to hold tight—
Not to lead, but to say “I am here; hold my hand , I’ll take you home!”