Small black fine line Devanagari script lettering on the inner wrist, photographed against a dark background.

Devanagari script on the inner wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a small word written in Devanagari script in black ink on the inner wrist. The linework is thin and even, with the strokes of the letters joined by a continuous top line typical of the script. The tattoo is in black ink only against pale skin, and the composition is centred on the wrist with the hand visible above and a dark background behind.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Word Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, all of you, and mind the peanut shells. You want the Gilded Sphinx, the one with the painted cloth and the man with the cough? No. Tonight it's the story of Hector Brand, because the fair has moved on from Margate and his name is still on the side of the wagon if you look under the paint. Hector was the wrestler. He boasted at every ground from Mold to Maidstone, and he took his boots off before he took his coat off so the crowd could see his feet were the size of coal scuttles.

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The new hand that spring was a quiet lad called Sami, who mended the dodgems and never once lifted his voice. Hector shoved him into the mud beside the generator for sport, and the whole fair laughed. Sami got up slowly, brushed his palms on his trousers, and walked back to his tools. Every evening after that, he stood by the lamps and said one word under his breath, the word his mother had taught him, which means you do not harm what can feel harm. The lads thought it was a prayer. Hector thought it was an insult.

In October the waltzer's main bolt sheared on the Saturday night, with three hundred people queuing at the gate. Hector came round the back with a bottle in one fist and a length of rope in the other, meaning to tie the lad to the rail for a laugh. Sami didn't run and didn't swing. He just sat on the step and said, could you hold the lantern, please, because I need both hands. Hector, who had never once in his life been asked for help, held it. He held it until dawn, while the bolt was found, filed and fitted.

When we packed up at the sea-wall, Hector's name had gone from the wagon and somebody else's was in gold letters. You'll find him now at the far end of the promenade, mending nothing, grinning like a man who lost a fight and was glad of it. Right, off you go. The carousel's stopping, and the last of the candyfloss is free to whoever's brave enough to ask for it.