Ammamma's Hands
A sonnet for a grandmother's hands: rice tested between thumb and nail, braids, the evil eye sent back down the lane.
Her hands could tell the rice was done by touch —
one grain, pressed flat between her thumb and nail.
They measured salt in pinches, never much,
and judged a mango’s temper by its peel.
They braided my hair so tight my eyes would sting,
then oiled it slowly, as if making amends,
and cracked their knuckles at my temples, flinging
the evil eye back out to where the lane ends.
Now they lie quiet on the cotton sheet,
the turmeric long faded from each nail.
I rub them, trying to give back some heat,
and tell her how my rice turned out — too pale,
too soft. She listens, smiles, and in my palm
presses one thumb, the way she tested grain: not done.