Generations of Her Hands

The Elder Sister

A sopping wet kiss lands squarely on my left ear–my first encounter, though I don’t know it yet, with shakti. By now, after three weeks in India, I am accustomed to the traditional address of namaste; hands pressed together and head solemnly dipped in greeting. But this woman, Maan, has now left a smattering of soggy kisses all over my ears, cheeks, and forehead. We are standing outside a cluster of houses belonging to our tour guide, Sachin, and his family on our last day in India. Sachin is hosting us, along with his parents, sister, and brother who own the surrounding buildings. It is a marvel of family unity in this small town of Varanasi, with each generation of Kumar represented in the little neighborhood. Maan, Sachin’s elderly mother, is the first to greet us in the courtyard connecting all three homes.

Her hospitality continues. She grins up at me as if I was her long-lost child returning home, hands firmly gripping the sides of my face with the painful pressure that only a grandma can make endearing. Eyes shining with excitement, she moves on to the next recipient of love. Each of the eighteen students on our study abroad receives the same greeting rituals as tokens of belonging to her family now. Not an ounce of English is spoken, just wordless affection pouring from the beautiful matriarch. Kisses are planted, shoulders are squeezed, and Maan’s excitement slowly lifts our tired and hungry moods. In her touch, a wave of emotion comes to the surface.

As the sole daughter in a family of rather private and un-touchy individuals, I grew up yearning for a sister. As I pestered my brothers to braid my hair or play house, I was met with disinterest and settled for tagging along to play FIFA. I cursed the y-chromosome for taking away my potential Little Women dreams, praying and praying that I would wake up and have a caring older sister that taught me the ways of the world. I watched my friends borrow their sister’s clothes, perform dance routines to earn sleepovers, and tease their other half about the funniest stories from their childhood. They had created a relationship so close and complex and completely foreign to my comprehension. I wanted it more than anything. I clunked my way around makeup and clothes and then relaxed in the comfort of my brothers’ Nintendo. I blamed my awkwardness, my lack of fashion sense, and my struggle to make friends on my two brothers' lack of womanhood.

It was not until my preteens that I found my first sisters in my Young Women’s class at church. I was enveloped in the organization, supported by the leaders and thrilled to be accepted by the older girls. I was liberated by the fun I had at our campouts: sleeping in a tent with my new older sisters, doing braid chains, and listening in on the sage advice for how to navigate middle school.

But as I grew older, those same sisters taught me more and more about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. They opened up hard conversations about the temple, church history, and family doctrine. I learned things that complicated my simple understanding of a Christian life. When they introduced me to the concept of a Heavenly Mother, I recognized a spiritual need that had long remained undetected in my life. The scriptures taught me that we were built in the image of God, but I didn’t look like the men in the paintings of the prophets. I yearned for something more, something to answer my ache for meaning and a higher purpose as a woman. I wrestled with my lack of authority, my seemingly predestined role in the home, and the stark unjustness of Doctrine and Covenants 132^[1]. I felt sincerely loved by the sisterhood I found in church, while simultaneously separated from the doctrine that I felt was oppressive towards my sex.

I separated from my ward, lost the weekly routine of church, and toed the line between Christianity and agnosticism. I explored my world with religion and my world without. Struggles I had with the church were still wrestled with, and aches about the future were left unanswered. Religion had offered a sense of belonging that I didn’t yet understand how to fill in its absence. I didn’t realize that the belonging I felt was not limited by the labels of theology, but enhanced by the diversity of cross-cultural sisterhood.

That night in India, Maan’s touch fills the hole. She ignites a memory; the feeling on that summer evening in Varanasi echoes many of the evenings I have spent with my dear grandmother, Grandma Charyl. Charyl is famous–notorious, to some–for a bit of an unconventional welcome gift when guests enter her home. In reflection of Jesus Christ washing the disciples’ feet, one of the ultimate symbols of His humility and sacrifice, Grandma Charyl offers all of her houseguests, strangers or family, a foot rub. Whenever I bring my roommates down to Charyl’s house in St. George, for the occasional weekend getaway, I make sure to give the same silly warning: “Grandma is going to ask you if you would like a foot massage, and you can laugh. You can also say no.”

Though I preface Grandma’s foot rubs with warning and humor, I look forward to her kindness every visit. As she pulls a stepstool to the base of the old recliner and offers a reprieve from the aches and pains of catching lizards in her backyard or hiking Snow Canyon, she embodies Christ in her motherly touch. Her hands are soft and veined, firm with intention. She kneads away the dust of the desert, the soreness of playing with cousins in the volcanic rocks all day, truly the weight of the world itself. The scent of citrus oil and familiar routine motions send me back to my four-year-old self, falling asleep to Grandma’s gentle care. Her shakti, her divine power to love and create, effuses through this reflection of Christ. I used to think she was just a quirky grandma. Now, I understand it is her way of worship. Both Maan and Charyl connect to something greater–a gift of warmth, nurture, something divine that needs no verbal manifestation. Their touch is, in essence, sisterhood. Charyl and Maan, though beyond me in years, are as much my sisters as any other girl in the world.

As I was made whole by their sisterly care, I dug deeper into the history of sisterhood. India’s rich blend of religions welcomed me like Maan’s embrace. The truths found in eastern practices, such as the divine feminine, reached across the divides I was pondering and began to fill my well of curiosity. I found shakti in scholarly works: Kathleen Erndl describes it as "not simply feminine power, but the power of the cosmos itself, embodied and enacted through the female form".^[2] This definition, while grandiose, resonated with my ponderings. I dug deeper: David Kinsley writes that the goddesses who personify shakti—Parvati, Durga, Kali—represent creation, protection, and transformation, showing how the sacred feminine shapes the world through acts of power and care.^[3] Hinduism’s godly manifestations of the very real, temporal capabilities of women sparked respect and reverence in my search. These were no gods of mine, but they represented my convictions. Tracy Pintchman emphasizes that shakti encompasses the energy of nurturing and teaching, showing itself in acts both grand and subtle.^[4] These words illuminated what I had felt: that each hug, each foot rub, is not merely kind or nurturing—it is an enactment of universal energy, the force that makes life and love possible.

The Middle Sister

That night in India, that same current of sisterhood hums through Sachin’s home. Maan, having completed her individualized greetings, motions for us to enter. The entire family lines the walls as we file in, wide-eyed and welcoming. The little cousins murmur namaste, nervous but curious, and we excitedly repeat it back. Their older sisters hold stone bowls in their hands, thick with a wet mixture of turmeric and lime. Maan, along with the girls, helps to paste our foreheads with a red bindi, preparing us to enter the home with the blessing of the third eye. Each time the women have done this throughout our study abroad, anointing our brow with the symbolic dot, the same shakti of Maan’s welcome and Charyl’s care zings through the touch of paste to my skin.

After being properly warded against evil, we enter Sachin’s home. Instantly, the smells of cardamom and cumin fill the air, sharp and warm, reminding us of the hunger that has grown as we made our way through the city of Varanasi. Hindus often believe that food is linked to anna daan, the sacred act of giving sustenance. In the kitchen, Sachin’s sister stands at the stove, stirring battered vegetables sizzling in oil. Her labors are certainly sacred; the kitchen, her temple, and this woman, its priest. The traditional dish she is preparing, pakora, is a fitting final meal of our journey. We all voice our delight at the delicious savory smell pulling us in. Sachin’s sister greets us, not with words, but with a fresh plate of steaming fried potatoes, onions, and paneer laid out on the dining table. Plate after plate of pakoras are fried up and devoured by our tour group. There is no doubt anna daan was in the kitchen that night.

Though our bellies are full, the sister takes no rest. She pulls out more spices and roots, ready to offer us more of her expertise in nourishment. Cinnamon and cardamom wafts into the room as she prepares the ingredients to brew masala chai. Her movements are ritual, grinding the ginger with mortar and pestle with practiced care. She builds up the drink’s flavor, first by boiling the water, then adding each hand-ground spice one by one. Milk pours and sugar melts, making the pot steam with sweetness. The room blossoms with the deep notes of peppery spice and sweet cinnamon warmth, every whiff stronger in aroma. Each stir of the spoon makes the reddish-brown liquid richer and richer in color, and the drink is eventually ready to serve.

Cooking is a painstaking task, even more so when each ingredient is peeled, whittled down, and minced before it can even be mixed. Her labors are met with our best pronunciation of dhanyavaad,^[5] but nothing we do can truly repay her for the invaluable memory and knowledge she has offered. Teaching us the recipes of her ancestors was true shakti displayed by Sachin’s sister. It was a divine power not confined to creation of life, but to the creation of love, flavor, and belonging. The same force that moves Maan to hug, Charyl to serve, and this sister to teach moves through every gesture, every act of care. Each action, though seemingly ordinary, becomes sacred when performed with devotion and love.

The Younger Sister

But the incredible women of the Kumar family are not done. To finish the night, the third generation, Sachin’s nieces, offer us a parting gift. The young girls bring out stacks of henna cones and go about adorning our arms with flowers, mandalas, and swirls. Their brows furrow in focus as they trace centuries-old patterns into our skin. They can’t be more than twelve years old yet create improvised designs more intricate than I would have ever believed possible had they not been drawn directly onto me. I absorb the wet coolness of the henna on my palms, the gentle pressure of their tiny hands, the warmth radiating from their bodies as they bend intently over our arms. They draw for hours, marking each and every one of us with unique and beautiful souvenirs. I ask them if they want water or a break and they shake their head, “no,” and continue covering our arms in living art. I am the last of the group to receive my henna. It is a beautiful ending to my final hours in India.

The nieces ask for nothing in return. Their shakti spills freely, just like Maan’s, staining our hands with the tender skill they give so humbly. From one generation to the next, the warmth of care and welcome is palpable. Women around the world share these talents–of art, of creation–and channel something electric yet tender. The streets outside are a rush of activity; the sound of rickshaws, the smell of street food, incense, and smoke fills the air; but inside, the focus remains on these intimate acts of care. It is here that I feel the universality of sisterhood. It is not bound by theology or geography; it is present wherever love, devotion, and skill combine to create safety, joy, and nourishment. It is in a grandma’s touch, a mother’s cooking, and a daughter’s henna cone. It fuels connection between women, between nations, between cultures. The ink of the henna on my palms was temporary, yet the imprint of what I witnessed is everlasting.

The colorful women of India flash through my mind in whirlwinds of fabric, patterns, and vibrance as I reflect on my experiences with shakti. Divinity shines through the ones sweeping the temple floors in silence, the ones balancing water pots on their heads, the ones laughing together in the shade. The woman fixing my sari before entering the Taj Mahal. The two girls taking an hour to help me find the supermarket in a back road in Gwalior. The biotechnology students of Jiwaji University teaching us both DNA extraction and the best Bollywood movies. The vibrant green rice fields contrasting against bent over forms of pink, orange, and yellow. The women of India do not blend in- they brighten the country with their presence. They string the healing web of sisterhood with every move.

The women of India have painted my life with shakti. The Christian women in my family, like Grandma Charyl, have colored my childhood with the grace and love of Christ. My Muslim, atheist, agnostic, and Jewish friends have taught me a sisterhood that spans beyond the bounds of religion. Women are born givers–whether divine or temporal–of life, of service, and of love. Shakti has shown itself not in grandiose events, but in the intimate, attentive gestures that connect one to another. It hums through kitchens, schools, churches, and streets; it shines through the smiles, the embraces, the meals, and the teachings that pass from generation to generation.

As I search myself for how my time in India has changed me, I can highlight the various things I learned about poverty, architecture, or world history. But what image comes to mind before the temples or the spices is the women that left a far greater mark. I see their skill in ancient silkworks, their care for their children living on the street, or their selfless assistance in draping my sari in the crowd. The women of Europe, Malaysia, Australia are no different–the women of India just had the unique ability to remind me of what I seek.

Sisterhood branches across religion and culture. In this life, many women will not marry. Many will not or cannot bear children. Many will not have a mother in their life. But sisters are found anywhere we look, and we as women are obligated to participate in that system. Our innate gifts to teach, lead, nurture, and love are so crucial to the livelihood of us and our fellow humanity. My time in India reminded me of my small but critical role in the web of sisterhood that spans worlds and time.

Shakti, I know, is not distant or abstract. It is tangible, alive wherever care is given. It is in the touch of love, the comfort of nurturing, and the quiet fire that sustains life across cultures and continents. In witnessing it, I am reminded that the sacred is not only found in temples or texts, but in the hands of ordinary women practicing extraordinary devotion.

Works Cited

Erndl, Kathleen M. Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses. NYU Press, 2000.

Kinsley, David. Hindu Goddesses: Visions of the Divine Feminine in the Hindu Religious Tradition. University of California Press, 1988.

Pintchman, Tracy. The Rise of the Goddess in the Hindu Tradition. SUNY Press, 1994.

The Doctrine and Covenants of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Salt Lake City, UT: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1981. Section 132.

Footnotes

^[1] D&C 132: 61 And again, as pertaining to the law of the priesthood—if any man espouse a virgin, and desire to espouse another, and the first give her consent, and if he espouse the second, and they are virgins, and have vowed to no other man, then is he justified; he cannot commit adultery for they are given unto him; for he cannot commit adultery with that that belongeth unto him and to no one else.
62 And if he have ten virgins given unto him by this law, he cannot commit adultery, for they belong to him, and they are given unto him; therefore is he justified.

^[2] Erndl, Kathleen M. Is the Goddess a Feminist? The Politics of South Asian Goddesses. NYU Press, 2000.

^[3] Kinsley, David. Hindu Goddesses: Visions of the Divine Feminine in the Hindu Religious Tradition. University of California Press, 1988.

^[4] Pintchman, Tracy. The Rise of the Goddess in the Hindu Tradition. SUNY Press, 1994.

^[5] Hindi for “thank you.”