Before a house has a voice, it has hands. It’s hands that stir before dawn, not with fanfare but enough to tilt the day into motion. In half-light, hands sweep the grit accumulating as if it were only dust and not yesterday refusing to leave.
With the strike of a match, the fire ignites, and the water in the kettle sings for morning coffee. Bread unwrapped, a knife moves with the unthinking precision of practice. By morning, the table is set the way a room is made safe. Cups stand ready and spoons are turned the right way for other hands to grab.
Midday comes with its repetitive tasks as structure, and hands change nothing. Because repetition isn’t a lack of imagination; it’s endurance. It’s lifting and carrying, wiping and wringing, repeating what must be repeated so others can move through their lives as if the world simply arranges itself.
By night, the hands finally pause. Not because they finished the work, but because the body insists. Because calming a child, reading a room, preventing conflict, and choosing silence are some of the “soft” tasks that require a whole body’s attention. The measured breath, the softened voice, and the pause before a word becomes a bruise require a fluency no one thinks to name, let alone notice, let alone thank.
Hands that do all work this are rarely called skilled. We call them “helpful,” “good,” “natural,” as if tenderness comes without training. Care is labour; a skill hidden in the architecture. And sometimes it’s restraint: the art of not making a fuss, while the room pretends it has always been calm.
Image of the madam and maid, taken from Museo Milavida, Tampere, Finland
PS. As we mark International Women’s Day this month, I want to give a shout-out to all who do the invisible labour that keeps life moving. To the hands that feed, clean, soothe, and keep going—often without applause. May your care be met with care: rest, fairness, and shared weight.
in a temple of power one god calls himself a leader another calls himself the leader other gods chime in proclaiming their godliness all these gods declare war to achieve peace
with fists clenched they argue over who merits peace and whom to offer as a sacrifice all while children whisper prayers to a god they wonder still listens
in a glass house divine messengers rise to shape destiny an absence of dissent while scrolling past screaming faces and self-flagellating devotees who keep praying to the same gods
all these gods— god of ruthless destruction god of justification god of hidden agendas god of smugness god of contradictions god of endless conflict god of …
all these gods— would not sacrifice an eye to gain wisdom yet they promise peace while twisting its name a slogan carved above the door
kingdoms rise and fall architects cannot stop glaciers from melting
where are the goddesses to place people at the centre to build trust to hold two truths at once—
water is rising harmony is fragile who speaks for peace?
Image: Prompts by Rajani Radhakrishnan
PS: I started writing this poem in 2024 during National Poetry Writing Month. It was a response to the #WriteRight prompts, created by Rajani Radhakrishnan on her blog Thotpurge, reflecting current times.
I didn’t share it then. It was unfinished—still unfinished, and it may never be finished—and I’m still living inside the question of peace.
I’m sharing it now because I’ve stopped asking what art can do in times like these. This is simply an act of processing, witnessing, remembering, and affirming our humanity.
