They emerged from the womb, pristine and clear. Pink, with a tiny sliver of white atop. Soon to be tainted by the woes of humanhood, but not quite yet. It was one of the few pleasures of adulthood that had led to the formation of this flesh-coloured masterpiece. Not to forget the nine months of careful gestation and a not-so-very taxing delivery.
They were carefully scrutinised, admired, doted upon, envied – as the little bundle of pink was passed from arm to arm. The father kissed it, looked at it again, then kissed it some more. A proud father’s scent remained on them, a whisper of his promises of protection and a good life. One that he could only promise, but not necessarily fulfil. For whether we like it or not, after a certain point of time, we are the architects of our futures, each passing breath a testament to the blueprints of fate and time. Every time she sniffed her nails, she smelled those promises. And long after her father was gone, she looked down at them to remind herself of him. For they were just like his!
“You must chew on them”, cajoled the old croon, as she gazed down at the baby with concealed disdain. “Chewing on them helps prevent damage from those confounded cutters they sell in the marketplace nowadays”. And hence, they were delicately chewed on. Each nail, to emerge mangled with a loving mother’s spit. While mother spat out each nail, she imagined herself spitting out the evil eyes and all the bad spirits who lay in wait, to pounce upon her beautiful baby. To ruin those perfect digits. Ones that she had painstakingly created.
Soon, the baby graduated to the nail cutter and under the careful scrutiny of her watchful eyes, mother dearest started employing the services of the household metallic contraption to keep her child’s claws in shape. The child watched wistfully. ‘Clip, clip, clip’, went the contraption. It was a marvellous piece of workmanship and the child adored seeing it. She yearned for the day she’d be allowed to use it herself, for ‘Nayle Katter’ seemed to be the most elusive plaything in the house, second only to the mysterious ‘Naieef’ and ‘Seesar’. When the toddler was taken out to the beach, she happily played in the sand. Building elaborate sandcastles – with moats and a stable for her ponies. Particles of sand lodged themselves firmly beneath her nails. It would be very poetic to claim that a couple of those particles never came out, that they remained there, quietly lying in wait, a testament of time, to narrate stories that were untold. But that was not the case. After each escapade in the sand, Father would scrub those hands clean. The sand would fall back amongst its brethren; awaiting someone else’s story.
Couple more years passed. A lot happened in those years. The nails were painted for school functions, for festivals, during vacations – bright hues, but only those deemed ‘appropriate’ for her age. For mother was a stickler for the rules and had vowed that she would raise a proper lady and not some entitled spoiled little brat. On the last day of summer vacation, the disgruntled child was made to sit with the not-so-pleasant smelling varnish remover and Mother Goose would attack her digits with a cotton ball generously dipped in the lemon scented concoction. The child would squirm at the slight burning sensation she felt on her fingers and blow on them after the ritual was complete, revelling in the cool sensation on her nails. By now, the nails had grown longer and slender. The white sliver, no longer remained a sliver. They were still flesh-coloured and pink. Pink and flesh-coloured.
Soon, the fateful day arrived. Mama Goose invited her brooding progeny to her little chair and announced with appropriate pomp and gusto that today she’d take yet another step forward in the art of self-preservation. Mama Goose brought out our protagonists’ favourite contraption and demonstrating on her own nails, taught her young’on how to clip them. The girl was not very adept at first, but she was careful to remain within the boundaries and never clipped her skin. “Remain within the boundaries, and you won’t get hurt”, said Mama Goose. It was an ominous sentence and it didn’t come as a surprise that the warning applied to other factors of life as well. After the clipping, our young phenom glanced over her nails and was rather proud of her handiwork. She was finally independent. In the school bus, the next day she proudly showed her friends her newfound independence and gazed enviously at the elder girls varnished nails. They were long, coloured and very fashionable looking. ‘Someday’, she consoled herself.
Her nails, which had hitherto grown perfectly round, now began growing haphazardly. She experimented while clipping her nails and marvelled at the various contortions she could pull off.
Soon, the nails graduated to college. Now, nail polish was put at will and after heated arguments with Mother Goose. They were no longer clipped short, but allowed to grow with abandon and often times coated in hideous and garish colour (the most favoured one being black). They were still pink and flesh coloured, but now weatherworn and wise beyond years. They hurt anyone who made contact with them at a certain angle. Mama Goose hated them, Papa Goose was indifferent to them, but for baby Goose – the quiet rebellion meant a taste of freedom and independence. Baby Goose was bad with keeping her talons properly polished and clean (much to her mother’s chagrin)
Soon, the nails were introduced to secrets. Secrets harboured in the dead of the night. Secrets which spoke of two hands intertwined, clandestinely – one brightly painted in shocking pink. The nails now grazed a young man’s face, that which mistakenly confessed of true love. When the young lady was far too inebriated and attempted to drink directly out of the bottle, the fiery liquid spilled down her hand, onto those nails and droplets lodged themselves firmly beneath the nail. The nails altered in colour, as she discovered the pleasures of rolled up tobacco, gaining a pale, yellowish hue.
The hedonism lasted for a couple more years. The young lady was no longer young. But she had learnt to groom her nails well. Now they remained short, neatly trimmed and varnished in elegant hues. Mama Goose approved. Papa Goose, well, he had other things to worry about.
Soon the lady was betrothed. The nails were adorned with vermillion varnish. Kissed plentifully by a doting groom. A prelude to a moderately happy marriage. Papa Goose was relieved. He could now bother about unkempt nails.
As the nails navigated the perils of married life, they altered in appearance. They were now back to being unkempt for the most part. The expensive manicures long forgotten. The bottles of nail varnish lay buried, behind in the cupboard.
Sooner than expected, a new set of nails wrapped themselves firmly around the older pair. The story would unfold again. Pink and flesh coloured, with a sliver of white atop. Baby Goose was now Mama Goose. Mama Goose was now Grandma Goose. And Papa Goose fussed over new Baby Goose’s nails.
Grandma Goose taught new Mama Goose how to care for Baby Goose’s nails. The biting ritual was taught. A mother’s legacy to her child. Someday Baby Goose would do the same for her child.
A lifetime passed. Some days were happy, some days weren’t.
The nails grew old and withered. Mama Goose graduated to Grandmama Goose. Her nails witnessed births and deaths. Triumphs and failures. Too many emotions and too few. They lost their flesh-colouredness and grew pale and grey. One fateful day, they felt completely cold.
She was buried solemnly. Dressed in her Sunday best. Lowered in a marked grave. With a tombstone marking her resting place, a grandiloquent epithet carved onto it. Baby Goose cried. Grandbaby Goose brawled.
‘Dong dong dong’. Nails fastening nails within the coffin.
A couple of days later, Mama Goose presented little Goose with the nail cutter. She carefully taught her to cut her nails, just like how she was taught.
“Always remember, to clip within the boundaries”, warned Mama Goose. Little Goose nodded solemnly. She sniffed her nails. They smelt of proud promises – that of protection and of a good life!
(This piece was inspired as I gazed upon a little baby’s nails. I played with her plenty. She is incredibly cute)
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