A few days ago, I was seated at the reception of an office in Delhi waiting for a client. As the man finally appeared in my line of sight, pushing open the glass doors and striding purposefully towards me, I felt my heart sink like the Titanic. My palms felt clammy and my fingers started twitching involuntarily. A voice inside my head whispered. Will he, won’t he? And then my worst fears came true when he stretched his hand towards mine, lips curving into a smile. I responded with a plastic grin and grudgingly offered my hand, shoulders hunched in defeat. What followed should have been a friendly greeting but felt like a hostile takeover.
I’m talking about the handshake. The ritualistic greeting that is supposed to signify trust and a sense of connection between two people. Except I feel none of those things when I’m faced with the prospect of shaking hands with someone. What I feel instead is gasping-for-air kind of terror. At the thought of encountering fingers (in a grip) that can go from awkward to repulsive in a matter of mere seconds. Give me a namaste any day.
Namastes are no contact sports, respectful and non-intrusive. A swift fold of hands, a nod and then it’s done. One can get straight down to business after.
A handshake, on the other hand, is much more complicated. You don’t know which way it will go. Now, don’t get me wrong. This isn’t my inner Sati Savitri rebuffing contact with men. I don’t like shaking hands with women either. In fact, there is probably good reason why women are excluded from handshakes in some cultures. The feminist in me has no problem with that. I will happily forgo a handshake if I am given the option. The problem occurs when I don’t have a choice and I have to go along with it.
You see, I’m a firm believer in doing things right or not doing them at all. The handshake falls into that territory. Most people just cannot get it right. A firm, generous shake of the hands. Friendly but impersonal. The right amount of pressure. Palms that are clean and dry, not sweaty or clammy. That is what a good handshake should involve. Not a limp, half-hearted attempt or some sort of indecisive finger manoeuvre.
Did I tell you about the time my hands were subjected to what felt like a chiropractic session with an energetic hand-shaker? His grip was so tight, I could hear my knuckles cracking with the strain. I had to immerse my fingers in an ice bath for weeks to get rid of the pain.
The worst part is, there is no knowing what you will be subjected to. There is no science to predict what sort of a handshake a person is likely to offer. Or an app that can make the deductions. So it’s best not to second-guess and greet like an Indian.
History says handshakes originated as a sign of peaceful intent. Hands that held no weapons came together as a symbol of friendship or a pledge of peace. Ancient cultures such as the Assyrians and Greeks were known to shake hands. The Knights did it too, when they ditched their weapons and made peace. While some cultures frown at it, it is more or less acceptable the world over as a business greeting. The pandemic might have turned the handshake into a hazardous activity with the danger of germs being exchanged along with pledges of friendship. But it hasn’t lost its pride of place, sadly.
I once had to shake hands with someone who had walked out of a washroom. There was no knowing whether their hands had been washed or not. So I began carrying my own version of a hazmat kit in my handbag. Sanitizer, wipes, the whole shebang. One can never be too careful. If you ever see me disappear into a washroom after shaking hands with me, you will know that I am not powdering my nose. I am, in fact, scrubbing my hands clean like a modern-day Lady Macbeth.
Let’s try a namaste next time, shall we?
