By Saqib Manzoor

When I cupped my hands, moaj, my grandmother, would place a handful of shirin in them.

I would bring my small palms together near my chin, close my eyes, and wait. It always turned out to be her. Still, I liked to believe that someone up there in the blue sky dropped sweetness into my tender palms.

Moaj would laugh and say,“Athi zii gand, te mang parwardigaras.” Learn to ask from the Creator.

I knew how to cup my hands, but I didn't know what to ask for.

When she was dying, I cupped my hands again. Others around her bed were doing it, whispering words I couldn't understand. I moved my lips too, pretending I knew what to say. The sky outside was dull, the air heavy.

When moaj left, I blamed myself. I thought maybe I hadn't held my hands right. Maybe the prayer slipped away because I didn't cup them well.

Later, I learned that the gesture of cupping hands held meanings beyond prayers.

One afternoon, I saw a woman staggering down the lane with a red bucket on her head. I thought it would fall, but she balanced it as if she were born with that skill.

Kashmiri women know how to carry weight on their heads and shoulders, and in their hearts. She placed the bucket on the mosque porch, and suddenly, people appeared from everywhere. Children squealed,“Shoudev mudev teharr hooo!”

That's when I saw yellow rice for the first time. Until then, I believed rice was always white. People stepped forward, one after another, cupping their hands. The woman placed a small handful of tehar in each pair of palms. Everyone smiled as if it were gold.

When it was my turn, she looked at my trembling hands, adjusted them gently, and dropped the warm, fragrant rice. I copied the grown-ups, bringing my cupped hands to my mouth and tasting the sacred meal.

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