When I was a child, I found palm reading fascinating. In Pakistan, Palmists were ubiquitous. Every family had an uncle or an auntie who claimed to be able to read your palm and tell your future. Women and teenage girls would flock around them, extending their palm, and calling out, “Read my hand.” In our family, Daddy was the palmist. And whereas men and women did not so much as even shake hands, when it came to palmists, hand holding was halal/kosher. I would watch as the lady sat opposite the palmist auntie, auntie holding the lady’s palm in her hand and looking intently at the lines, the lady wide-eyed in anticipation, or missing a heartbeat if a frown crossed the auntie’s face. Then as she started speaking, everyone would lean in. There was no privacy in palm reading. Your future was everyone’s business.
“You will travel abroad.”
“Where?”
“Across the seas. You will make a permanent home there.”
“Don’t tell my mother, or she won’t let me get onto a plane.”
Every girl’s favorite question?
“Who will I marry?”
“I cannot tell you who, but you will have three children.”
A newlywed extends her hand, “How many children will I have?”
The auntie is quiet. She turns the hand over, then bends her head and peers closely at the lines, then turns the hand sideways. Meanwhile, the newlywed is turning pale. Will I be childless?
Everyone holds their breath.
“I see twins.”
Exhale!
“You broke a young man’s heart.”
Everyone is glaring at the young lady. Was she seeing a boy?
“He sent me a love-letter and I ignored it,” she tries to restore her ‘good-girl’ reputation.
Once I extended my hand, and the auntie pushed my hand back, “Not for children. Your lines are still forming.”
My turn came when I was ten. Mummy’s cousin, Squadron Leader Javed Aslam, took me and Neena to a meena bazaar—a fair—hosted by the Air Force in Risalpur. Lo and behold! There at a table sat a palmist, an Air Force officer in uniform. He read my palm and told me that I would go overseas and settle abroad. That is all I remember. But my curiosity was piqued and I don’t remember how, but when a teenager, I got hold of a book on palmistry, read it, and from that point on, I claimed to be a palmist. Now it was my turn to read palms, and soon I was the most popular girl in high school. Every girl would ask me:
“Will I be lucky in love?”
“Will I have a happy marriage?”
I had all the answers.
And what about me? The lines on the side of my palm said it all: two unlucky loves, one strong marriage. Hey, who said it was a perfect science.
By the way, in case you are getting ideas, I have forgotten all I knew about the elusive art of palmistry.
Then came horoscopes, astrology, and the alignment of stars. It was fun, but I didn’t put much stock into it.
Somewhere along the line, I lost interest in divining the future. That has endured.
So if you ask me today, what would I like to know about the future, I will pass. It is in God’s hands and while we strive for the outcome we desire, at the end of the day, we accept the will of God. What is destined, what I cannot change, I’d rather not know.
I don’t want to know what Omar’s life will be like when his parents are gone. I know what I want for him, but I don’t want to see it in a crystal ball.
I don’t want to know if Khalid will recover from cancer; when I will become a widow, or if my husband will outlive me.
I don’t want to know who will win the 2024 presidential election, if we will overcome climate change, and if Pakistan recovers from economic collapse.
Or:
Will my children age in good health? Will their marriages stay intact? Will they savor the joy of seeing their children flourish?
What career will Laila choose? Will Sofia pursue medicine? Will Asha become a writer? Will my grandchildren stay close?
What my later years in life will be like? Will I remain in control of my faculties?
Will I leave this world while still in good health, or be bed-bound, have dementia, lose my vision?
Will my children bury me?
I don’t want to know when I will die, how, or where.
Que Sera, Sera
Whatever will be, will be.
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