The Evolutionary Biology of the Human Hand
The grasping hand of primates are an evolutionary adaptation to life in trees
They called us tomboys because we played on the tyre tied to the angsana tree on the banks of the sungai behind the village houses. You beat the trunk with a fallen branch, and the snakes would slither back into the water. You climbed on first, swinging out over the river pretending to let go. I shrieked, because the snakes are venomous. You laughed at my gullibility, “Mudah tipu!” Then you lifted me onto the swing, fitting my hands around the rope, and you swung me, gentle like the evening bayu in my hair.
As the grasping hand evolved, there was no further need for claws
The village boys came to the sungai, flinging pebbles at you. They said we were unnatural, someone had put a jampi on us. Your face thundered, cloudy thoughts roiling in your eyes. I stood in front of you, hurled verbal pebbles back at the boys’ fragile masculinity, “Cemburu, ke?” When a stray pebble caught me in the temple, you pulled me away. You puckered your full, dark lips and blew, soft and cool. You wanted revenge, but I stilled you with my hand. “Jangan peduli lah,” I said, they were irrelevant.
Dextrous, opposable thumbs meant primates made and used more tools
You got rope burn from the tyre swing once, a red raw heart line across your palm. I gathered your hand in mine, tutted. I brushed a striped succulent lidah buaya leaf over it, the juice being good for burns. It dripped off your wrist. You caught the juice with your pink tongue, “Pahit!” you exclaimed at its bitterness.
The primate hand is specially adapted for handling even very small objects
When we explored the aur reeds on the riverbanks, I found a scarlet dwarf dragonfly. It alighted, a winged speck on the back of my hand, and I brought it, full of wonder, to you. We learned that dragonfly nymphs live in the water and grow by shedding skin too small for their new size. You stroked my hand, gentle as a hatchling’s down. You said my skin was perfect. You said the village was the too-small skin, and we dreamed of shedding it, growing into something bigger.
The human opposable thumb is longer than that of any other primate, allowing for firm grasp
When my mother forbade me from seeing you, citing my already slim marriage prospects, “Nanti siapa mahu kahwin kamu?” I retreated to my room, the ache like a bruise. I couldn’t get my tiny grasp around the heft of it. You climbed in my window at night and gathered me in your sure hold. You silenced my protests with those plump lips, the sambal belacan from your dinner pungent on your breath.
The human thumb can also grip with fine control, allowing for delicate movements like handwriting
On the day I was to marry a widower from the neighbouring village, we met at the swing. It was the monsoon, the banks were almost overflowing, the river roiling like pulut in a pot. You beat the trunk of the great angsana, and I watched the snakes slither in, black velvet and green silk. We shed our clothes, and you wet a finger in the great rushing torrent. You drew on my back the story of our love, and in your hands it was simple and beautiful. You pulled me to you, and gently lowered us into the river, nymphs returning to the water. And when the snakes bit us, it felt as sweet, as aching as your kiss.
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Sumitra Singam is a Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She travelled through many spaces, both beautiful and traumatic to get there and writes to make sense of her experiences. Her work has been published widely, nominated for a number of Best Of anthologies, and was selected for Best Microfictions 2024. She works as a psychiatrist and trauma therapist and runs workshops on how to write trauma safely, and the Yeah Nah reading series. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com