Hands for sale

Artwork by Apurba

'Naturally,' the shopkeeper laughed. 'It is the hand of a black demon.'

A big showcase held many compartments, each displaying a hand and its description. They were powerful hands which had come down from the mountains, digging canals on the way, bringing milk and honey down from the heights. The mere touch of those hands could transform seawater into sweet water and dust into gold by secret alchemy.

'These hands are voiceless,' the shopkeeper said.

'They don't talk. They only act.'

'It's incredible,' my friend said. 'I can't believe it.'

'What's incredible about it?' I said. 'These people have sold their hands, as I intend to do now. These hands have become rusty. I just stay home, doing nothing. Where's the harm if I can get good money for my hands?'

'So you are also one of those who would sell their standing crops for cash,' my friend sneered.

Ignoring the taunt, I dragged him to a brightly-lit shop. Crowds of people had queued up at the counters, from which signboards advertising the shop's services hung. 'Offer your hands here,' one board proclaimed. And a big poster said: 'If you are out of work, or living beyond your means, don't despair. We have a ready-made solution for you. Give us your hands and spend your life in peace. One of our ships is sailing for foreign shores with a cargo of hands.'

My friend said, 'This is fantastic. I assure you, my story will be a sensation!'

I said, 'Sensation or not, that's your affair. I have come to sell my hands. All my neighbours have prospered. The vines of prosperity have sprung up their walls so quickly, while my courtyard is still poor and cold. My wife says I always have my idle hands in my lap.'

My friend shook his head in disgust.

Suddenly, there was a great commotion and people fell pell-mell on each other, breaking the queue. A man in a blue suit and gold-rimmed glasses cried out, 'Brother, it's my turn. Don't deprive me of my turn.'

Leaping forward, my friend took hold of the man's hand. 'What's the matter?' he asked. 'And why are you so keen to sell your hands?'

The man said, 'I have a job, but I'm heavily in debt. The burden is killing me. I don't know how to pay off my debts. It's too much for me.' Then he ran desperately to join the queue again.

A fashionable woman in a red sari, glowing like a neon sign, drew our attention. Her purse was half-open, and a hand peeped out of it. 'I hope I'm not late,' she said to the man with her.

'No, you are not late,' my friend said. 'But why do you want to sell your hand?'

'It's not my hand; it's my husband's!' She gently caressed the hand in the purse. 'He is a reputed architect. He builds bridges and big mansions. Shahjahan built the Taj Mahal out of love for his queen. Never mind a mausoleum, I told him, just build me a house on a thousand yard plot in the Defence Society. He said he would have to sell his hand, because...'

My friend interrupted her; 'Surely, you know how useful your husband's hand is. How can you do without it--you need the support of his hand so often. And then...'

Suddenly, the neon glow on the woman's face was extinguished. 'It's my personal business,' she said. 'Don't poke your nose in my affairs.'

'So there you have it,' I said to my friend. 'Didn't I tell you not to waste your breath?'

'Leave me alone,' he fumed. 'You have no idea what I'm headed for.'

'Get on with your story and let me do what I have to. I've carried the burden of my hands far too long.'

'Give it another thought before you take the plunge,' urged my friend. 'If you sell your hands, who would play your accordion?'

'It's my personal affair,' I said irritably, like the neon-lit woman, and

walked away.

When I returned home after selling my hands, my wife beamed and gave a warm hug like a newlywed. She was pleased with the beautiful overcoat which I had got in exchange for my hands. 'Just the thing for you,' she exclaimed, caressing the overcoat, 'You look wonderful in it.'

I said, 'One good thing about this overcoat is that you can't make out that my hands are missing. And it has bottomless pockets. They never run out of money.'

'Just the thing I wanted,' she said. 'That your pockets would hold so much money that you could spend and spend, and yet they would be full. Well, let's get down to business straightaway,' she said, putting her head in my lap.

'How do you want to go about it?'

'We must have a bungalow.'

'Yes, by the sea,' I agreed.

'It will have ivory walls. Its doors will spring open when you say, "open sesame". And chandeliers on ceilings.'

'And the light of dawn will cascade from these chandeliers,' I reminded her.

She clapped her hands in joy: 'Oh, how beautiful our house will be!'

'As I walk on the lawn, as I bend down to pluck a rose...' My voice trailed off as I realized that I had no hands. A wave of helplessness swept over me. I asked my wife how the tenor of life would change, now that I had no hands.

'Not at all,' she replied. 'You'll get used to the loss in a few days. Just think: there are so many men without hands in our lane, but they are happy and cheerful. Why don't you go and meet them see what your new way of life will be?'

Not a bad idea, I thought. In the evening, I was standing at my window when I spied Malik Saheb, my next-door neighbour. He was in an overcoat like mine. He almost jumped with joy when he saw me. 'Aha, so, you too...your hands. Congratulations!' he exclaimed.

'Yes, Malik Saheb,' I said. 'But I feel very odd.'

Malik Saheb said, 'Never mind, there is nothing to worry about. Now, you will savour the joys of life. come, I'll introduce you to some people.'

He took me to Chaudhary Saheb's house. He was having a gala evening in his drawing room. They were all there Kanwar Saheb, Khan Bahadur Saheb and other eminent people of the neighbourhood. All of them were in overcoats like mine. They were discussing VCRs, and the latest regulations about the import of cars. Malik Saheb told the gathering, 'My friend here is in a quandary. Tell him how to live without hands.'

Swift as an arrow, Kanwar Saheb's response flew at me. 'Forget your hands; start living life,' he said.

Khan Saheb nodded in agreement. 'People nurture their hands so that they can help them in their old age.'

Subedar Saheb said, 'Don't worry about your hands. Let them do their job.'

I returned home feeling quite positive, thanks to the company of these veterans.

But that very night, after I had fallen asleep, I thought I heard someone knocking on the windowpane. It was a dark night, with only a faint glimmer of moonlight in the window. I looked out, but could see nothing. I closed my eyes. Again, someone knocked on the windowpane. And now the window opened and I saw two hands enter the room, walking on their fingers. They were my hands, and they jumped up on my bed and began to play on my chest as I watched, fascinated. Then they climbed onto my table and started writing on a piece of paper. I got up and looked at the paper. 'Your hands are the repository of your strength,' it read. Then they slipped out the window.

When I told my wife what had happened, she laughed. 'You must have been dreaming,' she said.

The next morning, I went to Chaudhuri Saheb's house. 'Do you ever see your hands?' I asked him.

'What are you talking about?' he said.

I put the question to Kanwar Saheb. He laughed sarcastically, 'Brother, your hands and mine, they must be utterly tired out. Probably asleep somewhere. It is not in their lot to go gadding about.'

But the same thing happened the next night. I again saw those hands coming in through the window. I watched them stealthily from the corner of my eye. The hands went round my bed a number of times and then started playing together on the floor. Then they climbed onto my table, put on my gloves and began to play on my accordion. They played sad numbers that brought tears to my eyes. My wife woke up and was surprised to see me weeping. 'Why, what's the matter?' she asked. 'Why are you crying?'

'Didn't you hear it? My hands were playing the accordion.'

She looked around the room. 'I don't see them here,' she said. 'Perhaps you were dreaming.'

'It's not a dream,' I cried. 'Those hands come to me again and again. They are drawn to every object in this house. All this is so dear to them!'

First thing in the morning, I went to the hand market. The shop where I had sold my hands had just opened for business. I looked keenly for my hands, but they were not to be seen. I said to the manager, 'Sir, I want to take my hands back. I shall return your money and that overcoat too.'

The manager looked surprised. 'Why do you want your hands back?' he asked. 'Don't you know what wonderful work they are doing?' He drew me to a picture. In a burning desert, a crop of hands grew all the way across the frame. I closed my eyes. When I opened them again I saw the desert crowded with gravestones, each inscribed with an epitaph.

'No, I want my hands back at any cost,' I said.

Just then, a huge crowd burst in through the open door. More people who wanted to sell their hands. In the melee, I found myself being driven towards the exit.

'My hands,' I cried. 'For God's sake, I want them back.'

But no one took any notice of me. Like a crocodile, the shop had begun to devour the long queues that had formed at its mouth.

I saw my friend standing in a corner of the shop. 'Listen, I want my hands back,' I barked at him. 'Are you listening? You must help me; no one is listening to me.'

He looked at me, a faint, lifeless smile on his lips. 'What do you need these hands for if you can be happy without them? Look what I have brought.' He drew out a packet from under his arm. His sundered hands lay in it.

'What about your story, powerful enough to shake the world?'

'No one wants to publish it,' said the journalist. 'It's time I sold my hands.'

He moved on, leaving me standing alone.

Published with the permission of The Little Magazine, Delhi. Najmul H. Rizvi is a well-known Pakistani short story writer who lives in Abu Dhabi. Jai Ratan has translated many works from Hindi and Urdu into English.